#sonnets.

Upon the winter of twenty-thirteen,  I knew a man with a love of chicken. The hair on his head was a golden sheen. I could always find him in the kitchen.

Upon his back was the best rear end. I often admired it in the night. And when upon my lap he would descend, I would admire it with all of my might.

It was the perfect mix of soft and firm. I could not get the butt out of my head. Even professional scholars confirmed That his butt was much better than sliced bread.