O, glorious bit of nourishment,
Thy taste is truly heaven sent.
Such pleasure thou expounds to me,
My precious tube of ecstacy!

Though many morsels touch my tongue
Thine anthem ne'er shall be outsung.
Sweet Machevellian delight
Pervades my throat with every bite.

There is no greature pleasure than
Eight sausages packed in a can.
The grandeur of thy sweet bouquet
Is faint to take one's breath away.

Thy juice and stunning succulence
Is said to conjure flatulence
And rumblings from the diaphram
Unmatched, of course, except by Spam.

But, from this land where Mozart played
And Ludwig Van conciertos made,
This land from where great music came
Is it not right you make the same?

Though other weiners may aspire
To be as plump as Oscar Meyer
Thy svelte, petitte, and sleek design
Slide freely through these lips of mine.

At weddings, thou art ever picked,
With swedish meatballs on a stick
To be the morsels of delight
On that most joyous of all nights.

My dearest treat, I bid thee well.
I love thee more than words can tell.
I take my leave....I must compose
My "Sonnet to the Oreo".

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