In the poorly lit waiting room, Valerie dear,
Of the 9th precinct, down in the basement,
Your last words still echo and ring in my ear,
As I give the detective my statement.
“You look hungry,” you’d greeted me, glint in your eye,
All but nude, save for shoes, at your door,
“I could eat,” I replied, diving headlong, I
Started lap snacking right there on the floor.
Ah, yodeling deep in your gully, my mind
Drifted back to the last time I’d eaten.
That stale Peanut Chew in the ashtray defined,
For me, such a delectable treat then.
Then ‘round my head, feeling your quaking thighs tighten,
Twixt nethers so gently, I pulsed.
“So far, so good,” thought I, my sense of pride heightened,
I loved how you thrashed and convulsed.
But when next I glanced up, I was puzzled to see you
Assailing yourself with an Epi-Pen.
‘Twas precisely that instance, beloved, I knew
How the both of us teemed with adrenaline.
Resolute, I returned to the task I had started,
Urged on by your whooping and wailing,
“Don’t stop!” the choked, swollen command you imparted,
Deciphered though seizing and flailing.
Wearied, I watched as your windpipe constricted.
Oh, would that I could have been, Valerie,
More considerate of (just a lick) those afflicted
With clearly severe peanut allergies.