Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it "Chops" because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year...
That’s the thing about ham, it demands to be eaten.
My thoughts are hams I cannot fathom into sandwiches
I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of eating ham.
‘It’s a metaphor, see: You put the ham right between your teeth, but you don’t give it the power to be delicious.’
“And in that moment, I swear we are ham.”
Wait. Wrong book.
Oh, I was hoping someone would notice that.