My world is filled with pleasure when I, at my leisure,
Crunch on you like late autumn leaves, stepped on, in gutters.
For you I forsake all others: Original, French Onion or BBQ; whether smooth or crinkled in persuasion,
I'd make love to my hand to quell the bland air, that finds its way in between crammed
consignments -- a dichotomy of sodium and zest --
of all the chips I love you the best.
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