Poem: The Perfect Sandwich

Give me two slices of wheat bread, and not the kind that appears as wheat.
I know what companies do to trick people as if they're eating wheat.
You know that terrible wheat bread full of gluten and sugar. 
I want the wheat bread that's whole and has grains, many many grains.
The kind that's hopefully made by reformed people.
And don't be putting on mayonnaise, fat-free or full of fat.
I don't like either one. 
I like my sandwiches dry like the desert.
It forces me to drink a tall glass of water with it.
No soda or pop as they call it in the Midwest because my gut 
can't take anymore bloating from all the bad eating I've done.
I've got a figure to keep.
It's laughable, I know, but my mirror is full of delusion.
Slap on all the vegetables and spices.
No salt because too much isn't good for anyone.
No salami, no turkey, no bacon, no meat should touch my bread.
I shouldn't even be eating that cheese I like so much.
My insides can't digest it like it did back in the day.
Now it wakes me up at night out of a deep sleep and prevents me 
from getting back to that comfortable feeling.
I put too much thought in this sandwich, give it too many demands.
It's only a sandwich. 
It will keep my belly full for a while and hunger soon again.
I really shouldn't be eating this.
The wheat bread isn't that special, and I eat it anyway.
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