Oats

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.

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