Oh most wondrous pearl of the oyster’s lustrous silver loins without who’s  most arduous and interminable suffering, the culmination of love’s fevered, lusty penetrations, your fourth of eight encounters with the bearing of nature’s ultimate fruit, spoiled not with age or impunity, but only thy fostering the sweet acts of selfless kindness and delusional divination to ascribe simple dignity and humility into the spirit of your cherished progeny who are in thy eternal debt.

I  beseech thee, nay, I implore thee to take up thy culinary sword and bear upon that divine minglement of succulent, nectarous orbs of the tree and the lofty sweet fragrance of the cinnamon spice cloud which now permeates each nook and cranny of the sniff passages that of which nuzzle the scent in its sacred assignment to rehearse with  the anxious anticipating buds whose vocabulary speaks only of taste and scoffs at the house of Crocker in its prejudiced, incorruptible recognition of the true and natural palatability of that which is vulcanized within the loving confinements of thy own reliable, nay,  infallible oven’s womb.  I beg thee to divide the steaming, flaking, crusty magnificence into such generous proportions that would so define the fractional distribution to be indistinguishable from the whole so that I may satiate the hungering fires of apple appetency blazing at such depth within my visceral cavity so as to trigger ominous, roaring, rumbling echoes that resonate to all those within earshot possessing the ability to hear. I pray in earnest thy golden fare doth include a bountiful allotment of the Bovine’s frozen vanilla delight in such arrangement as to drizzle over the wedge and seek to form a gently warming pool of creamy sweetness to dip and swirl each savory fruity morsel. I beg father time to take his leave so the over indulgence may begin without adieu.

Thanks, Mom

Copyright 2009 Patrick Granfors