The annals of my tummy are a long and glorious slog;
I have often nibbled daintily (or gobbled like a hog.)
My appetite is welcoming and no distinction made
between pate de foie gras and some Wyler's lemonade.
But lemme tell you sumpin 'bout the vittles I inhale;
there's four of 'em I'm partial to (and none of 'em use kale!)
Let's start with chicken gumbo, with the okra piled on high;
a dish with rice beside it makes me almost want to cry.
A chili cheese fiesta, with crisp corn chips by my side,
makes me think of heaven (and so happily I died!)
Ya gotta have good salsa with that kind of meal, muchacho --
hot enough to roast your tongue until it is a nacho.
I think about the Beach Boys as to market I do stroll
to snag a tray on which resides my California roll.
Unctuous with mayo, it reminds me of my youth --
when happiness came easily (and didn't need vermouth.)
And then there is spaghetti, which with meatballs must be dotted;
such a dish, with crusty bread, will leave me much besotted.
Could I but have these four things for my sustenance each day,
the world with all its problems would seem very far away . . .
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