Apple hickory smoked bacon.
Tis what I be makin.
Tis delicious if I'm not mistaken.
I think I'll have some while I'm wakin.
Then going into school hatin.
Cause I don't have my bacon.
It feels like playing cards with Satan.
He just sits there awaitin.
Awaiting for the time he gets an ace.
But he isn't getting any,
they're in my shoelace.
Bacon is my cure all.
Cause Satan is put to the wall.
This is not all.
Cause bacon does not stall.
Bacon is my friend.
And so this poem must come to an end.
by Jason Fultz