I search the grocery store in haste.
My goal is a cheesy, crunchy taste.
I find it deep I aisle nine, for just a dollar thirty nine.
A box of pizza made of cheese.
My appetite is a crunchy disease.
My friends and family tell me I am eating fat.
But they don’t know how satisfied, while I am eating pizza fried.
I savor each bright red curl, until I feel I might hurl.
Their praise I will always sing, cheesy pizza they are my everything.