A petrarchan sonnet but it’s written by post-apocalyptic cultists who worship the last good jar of peanut butter, only to learn it’s spoiled

Oh peanut butter. You inspire flame
within my soul. What ire! What tang! What zest!
Do mine own mortal laments reach your nest?
I beg you, preach: are you deaf to my exclaim?

I love you with my earthly strength. But shame!
For I have given length. What is this test?
You are exquisite, like Gary’s -- (cult leader’s) -- vest.
I will not rest! ‘Til murder in your name!

We storm the gates of hell now! Yes, tonight!
While blood is fresh and steel is sharp and goons
Are drooling desperate to taste supple flesh!

But now red curtains close on holy fight --
And all is silent for tonight. The moon
is bright, but for all that, you are not fresh

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