I’m intending to cook a lot of biscuits…
warming up the stove.
I’ll make five dozen, maybe ten;
won’t give any to friends…
won’t share this fare I declare; it’s MY trove.

I’m intending to cook a lot of biscuits;
I’ve been to the store
for ingredients that I need;
it will be a fearsome feed.
I’ll gorge, then have more!

To share is awful—it’s moot; I’m a skinflintish coot;
I’ve a gluten-gluttony yen.
Lots that I’ve got I will hog while they’re hot…
open oven when baking ends.
I’ll glom and grab, then satiate as drool I will expend.

I have finished cooking a lot of biscuits…
time to tummy-stow.
Even though they’re as hot as hell,
I gobble ’em. So swell!
It’s burgeon time until I’m primed to blow.

It’s beginning to look like globs of biscuits
loom to soon depart;
’cause they sting my stomach lining—up a barrelful I bring.
Let the stove restart!!