SUNDAY MORNING

Strident rays shine down upon my do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti ring-shaped cake fried in greasy or oily matter (assuming a horizontal position on the sidewalk) of fact or fiction. The truth hurts when that yellowish part of milk containing from 18 to about 40 percent butterfat ceremoniously spews from the cavity, that hollowed-out place where your craving tongue hoped to probe while your two fleshy folds that surround the mouth mourn the sweetness of that chocolate mixture coating the exterior, upper boundary of that mi, fa, so, long john that escaped my grasp.