When I eat his doughnut, all I leave is the hole.
what a false friend, this chef, this boss, this kitchen man or bessie’s beau: i’ll gobble you, love, and leave the hole. love is a donut, by which i mean: do nut go, or i’ll go nuts. or so the song goes through kitchens and guts, we haven’t yet sung of clammy hands. the men were all called sam, and lord, how they could open clam, their other kooky crafts we’ll leave unmentioned—or else just hum them, plumply sated, sugar-mouthed.