Vanilla

I tried a pound of troubadour
and yodelled through the night.
She wasn’t very happy:
I’d sung quite out of tune.
I took that packet back,
it was clearly rather off.

I bought a pound of lust
labelled for “De Sade”;
I turned my partner round
and beat her with a rose.
Great. The girlie got annoyed.

The next one that I bought?
The milkman didn’t care:
he’d seen it all before.
No milk for me this month.

I went back to the aisle
and found another box
so she could manage things,
mixing an allusion
with the misuse of a horse.

We’ve sampled all the styles;
just one was very dull.

According to The Bigot
it’s this that I should like:
I read it in the pages
that ranted at a restaurant
and got a chef arrested
for chilli in a dish,

[Here,
it instructs me,
I should be
disgusted.]

as if
a man
could choose

the food
that he
was born
to eat.