How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
On Sunday mornings, when my head is aching
and my stomach is grumbling from a night a'town,
you fill me up with your brilliant sustenance.
First white, then wheat, both short and long,
you surprise me with your morsels of dates and nuts.
I love thee freely, because I know not your calories.
I love thee immediately, because you come so quickly.
But most of all, I love thee for your delicious jars
of apricot and currant and hazelnut spreads.
I could bathe in that brunette hazelnut concoction.
I love thee with bated breath,
so short from my mouth stuffed with bread.
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