Poem: Sweet on Butter’s Bottom

That sweet butter,

melted that drips from the corn,

onto the chin, and onto the napkin:

the non-descript white one

placed carefully in your lap.

There’s no way it will hold

ten or more drops.

seeping through it.

They claim it should suffice

and after you are done eating

the kernels like a typewriter moves,

there is a different outcome.

The stains on your pants

are every which way, you should’ve worn

darker pants or short,

the richness of the butter isn’t so noticeable.

That sweet butter,

I’ll have another cob,

lather it on every kernel surface,

the best part is the bottom and that’s why

it’s called sweet on butter’s bottom.

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