Even though I hate to touch you when you’re in the raw
When I cook you up to a perfect crisp, you’re anything but blah.
I enjoy you most with peanut butter which many think is gross
I crave the sweet and salty deliciousness between some whole wheat toast
Even though you spit at me and like to burn my hand
You make me fat, my stove a mess, but my kitchen can withstand
The hatred that you have for me as I burn you to perfection
Little do you know my dear oven mitt offers great protection
Don’t worry sweet bacon; you’ll live your life snug inside my freezer
Until a recipe calls for your awesomeness – then you’ll become a crowd pleaser.
This poem is dedicated to my husband and all bacon lovers out there. Holla.
