I bow down to you in all of your nutricious and delicious glory!
I nibble at the nubs of your left over bakings!
I gleefully accept any condiment that you wish to lay apon my fresh bread bed of goodness.
Litter it with the delicacy known as shredded lettuce! Throw upon it the sliced rounds of tender tomatos! Tickle my fancy with your rings of pleasure known as purple onions!
And spooge force the liquid known as Thunder Sauce!
Just squirt it in my mouth because there is nothing finer that the sauce of Thunder!
Spooge! Spooge! Spooge!
But do not forget my frosty beverage of brewed tea on ice with the tossings of lemon thrown in for extra zing!
And woe be to he who does not offer a side of soup or a bag of Jalepaneo chips for cleansing of my pallet between bites of luxury.
Ye creator of the Sub. Behind your pulpit of sandwich makings do you reside. Sheilded by your tie-dyed cloak and protected by your cynical smirk I do see shine forth from your bloodshot, yet beautiful eyes a sincere wishing to create what is good.
And what is right.
I do giggle with glee as you make flirtatious conversation consisting of the hum drums of our days, while you knowingly place said makings in the most perfective fashion, ending your creation not with a signature of talent, but the slice of a knife.
Into twain is it cutted.
Yet forever shall we be one.
You are my golden calf. Fast. Fresh. And Healthy.
I will be your boo.