From your sugared tongue
I hunger to be fed
words far better left unsaid.

On your decadent promises
I will greedily dine
but a second helping I'll decline,

for a woman can sicken
from a diet of desire.
Alone at the table, I soon tire

of being the cake
you long to have and to eat.
You find each forkful bittersweet.

And while I'll always remain
your preferred confection,
your wife? Well, she's perfection.