Attempt one at Tim's calisthenic. I think I have too many adjectives. Apologies.
Marines like Romano
We eat pizza, swallowing smoke,
and you tell me you're immortal.
And the cheese tastes like contacts stuck
in a clog in the back of my throat.
You tell me, "Hun, it's all for you,"
and I sag and wheeze a whisper
of how human you look today.
I want to return your black gifts.
Your dedication in fatigues,
gift-wrapped in serviceable form.
This cheese dodges consumption in boots
and with every bite reminds me
there's no customer service room
exchanging returns for receipts
because you signed away your name.
"I know you can handle it."
You assure your marinara
and then parmesan reminders
that once you're in, you're in for life.
And I nod--I have to agree
because while I'll be chugging cheese
you'll be frontline peppering men
and reminding me you'll never die
because, "Baby, I'm too stubborn."
Too obstinate, like pizza cheese.
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