A.Y.R.T.E.?

Certainly I’m ready to eat,
What kind of question was that my sweet?

Anything you concoct will be quite suitable,
I just pushed back my filthy white cuticles.

No place at the supping table for dirty mitts,
I just counted out $7.50, or thirty bits,

Where that money’s been, only the chief of the cosmos is privy,
No talk of Him now, my appetite’s open like glasnost in skivvies,

And so is my tooth garage, which will soon be crammed with vehicles
Of caloric gloriousness way better than any Warsaw Falcon pickles.

Cured cukes won’t satiate the beast that lay within,
Nothing can preserve this hunger, not even lecithin,

Because you see, when I arise and make haste toward the kitchen,
I’ll make gluttony chic like only Abercrombie and Fitch can,

But there’ll be no half-naked party boys wearing boxers showing off obliques,
Just a man, his wife and a bunch of food that’s gone like Quebec Nordiques.