Oh salad bar at Morrisons how I love thee!
How I long to explore every inch of your stainless steel body.
Your hygienic silver body containing many containers of yummy foodstuffs.
Not much like an actual body, but let's go with it.
My empty stomach aches for your interesting selection of pasta salads:
The tomatoey one, the other tomatoey one, the one that tasted fishy that hopefully contained fish.
Rice salad, cous cous and quinoa for a plastic bowlful of exotic multi-multiculturalism.
The taste of your croutony lettuce fills me with joy, and croutons and lettuce, obviously.
Hard boiled eggs! Where else on the high street can you buy individual hard boiled eggs for fucks sake!!!
How
I dream of ripping off your sneeze guard and making mad passionate love
to you in a flurry of grated cheese and crunchy onion bits.
But I can't. It's not Asda.
I'll never have that moment so I'll imagine the next best thing. Rachael Riley with breasts like your falafels.
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