There is a cake on the table
Savagely torn by
fingers and forks.
The rest of our garage?
Well its meant to seat many
And many it did
But no true adult
Or that would be a fib
I sit alone in our garage
Seeing the aftermath of children of sorts
Debating to eat that cake of yours
In the highest of moral courts.
But instead I sit here and I write
About how I have responsibilities and
can’t stay up all night.
A fresh cake would be great
But I’m late, it’s just not my fate.
Now the cake is old and my taste buds are dry.
Even though I am young, I am not that spry.
I spend morning thinking in philosophers seclusion
To pull down the curtains of this grand illusion.
And though this cake and I deserve the Marital Union
I digress and remember the philosopher’s exclusion.