Let me not to the feasting of bad pie

Concede weakness, Domino of Domino

Temptress to thy illfit hunger,

Or wicked wench to thy Fathers’ John.

 

O no, thine knowest better

Thou hast swore thee thou dough is never frozen;

That thou shalt deliver to thee free should thine

shadows pass half past arches time.

 

Passion, not gimmicks, is what desires from thee

Cheeses upon cheeses but where art thou grain,

Always fresh ingredients but why must thou claim,

Anything to sell pizza, bitch, it ain’t no game:

 

Fuck thou, corporate America, free thee of thy chains

The only fuel to write thy sonnets is the only perfect pie.

Note: I realize this does not actually pass as a sonnet