but soon I'll be at the back of the queue.
I need your tantalising tongue to taste me,
and a guarantee that you won't waste me.
But in a packet of eight it's touch and go;
my sell-by-date grows ever closer.
My so-called tubmates laugh at me,
peach melba, rhubarb, strawberry.
Stop tickling, giggles the poncy prune
as it wriggles on your plastic spoon.
Cocky Kiwi flirts and taunts,
while vulgar vanilla struts and flaunts.
The fridge seems bare but I'm still there,
you touch me but you're such a tease.
I'm now behind some mouldy cheese,
too rank to spread on someone's bread.
It's now my turn but I'm saggy and sour.
You give me a sniff, then a cheeky lick.
But it's only foreplay in the final hour;
just a premature sigh and a kiss goodbye.
