I love you, I love you, my dear oats.
My affection is deeper than medieval moats.
You taste so good with sugar or salt,
Giving me your all, I can’t find a fault.
Boiled in water you feed me in the morn,
Removing the night time hunger’s thorn.
In a sugar flour mix and baked real well,
You conjure up the most tastiest smell.
My teeth love you as much as I do,
The feeling they get biting into
Your oaty texture is entrancing,
When I feel it I can’t stop dancing.
If oats are my love, then can’t you say,
That eating one’s love is a monstrous display?
Therefore I think that calling this love,
Is like calling a cowboy boot a glove.
Yes, they do have a lot in common,
But to tell them apart you don’t need a lawman.