Confessions of a lunatic

Far away in a distant memory
Is a place and time
When I was carefree
Lost in my own insanity
And this is what has
Led me to be me
So please do forgive me
If I have troubled thee

Buffalo Wings

Wings, a man is born without,

Yet he eats them to get stout.

They come in three sizes; six, twelve and eighteen,

And their aroma is everlasting.

Bright orange and golden brown little wings,

You were never the food for kings.

Nevertheless, to a common man you are heaven,

Especially when watching a game on television.

Together with its companion – beer,

Constitute the happy meal for the mature.

Yummy, scrumptious, tasty wings

Quite a delight you do bring

But beware of the dangers that lie,

Because, a buffalo cannot fly.

(edit) The Buffalo Wings poem actually has a story behind it. I absolutely hate buffalo wings and my friend challenged me to write a poem on it, stating that the hardest things to write about are the ones that you dont like. Taking on his challenge resulted in the above sonnet.