Taste

Warning: This poem is a bit of comedic relief. I wrote it based on a writing prompt provided for me. Please keep an open mind to the contents as they are simply meant to be humourous, not offensive. I apologize in advance. 

His taste in women was smooth like mayonnaise from the bottle. But he only liked his mayonnaise on a burger with relish, where he could catch that sharp punch of the dill in between. He liked it when fiesty women played hard to get, like pickles in his pickle jars. When you try to pull just one pickle out and it slips from your grasp. That’s what he was about.

He didn’t like it when he was taken advantage of though. When women were “salty” like soy sauce dumped all over his good nature.

He liked them to be spicy, like hot chilly peppers in a bowl of fresh soup. He didn’t like it though when women couldn’t make up their minds. One minute it’s hot mustard, the next it’s cold ketchup from the fridge.

He simply didn’t get women. They were all so different from him.

Some were like honey, rich in both passion and personality. Their every word leaves you slowly dripping and hanging on for more.

Some were like an iced coffee, cool and laid back on a hot summer day, making all your problems go away.

Some were like ice cream, each scoop a different size and shape. It didn’t matter how much you’d get through, it was the flavour that really counted.

Some were like marshmallows, squishy and cute. They are the ones that want to be held from dusk until dawn and yet they still pull you back into bed when it’s all said and done.

Girls are like food. Both bad and good. It’s just a matter of your taste.

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