Anna's Cream Bun

Cream Bun

He bangs the table,
“Where is my meal?”
he demands with flaired
nostrils, the size of dinner plates.

I yell back “honey, you'll have to wait...”

The prurient thought crosses my mind;
for what he has to find.

My cup so full,
up to the brim
dripping, with delicious sin.

This very night he'll get a taste
of this cup so full, and unchaste.

A sweet bun he may wish to devour,
yet when he tastes this cream bun,
his mood shall sour.