Infinitely safe and calm and appeal
To the OCD within that does remark,
"Ne'er shall your food embark
To touch, to mix, to intermingle."
The effect of this makes me tingle
Because I like my food
Divided, conquered, and subdued.
Each course in its own spot -
Here the peas, there the fish, and here the tater tot.
I cannot fathom the plate or bowl -
As if the identity of each food you stole
And combined to render them much more
Than the parts - But what are they for
If not to enjoy in their own singular expression?
All this mixing fills me with a deep depression
For I love the carrot, the peas, the fish stick - all!
Yet if they touch on my plate I'll simply fall
Out of my chair and onto the floor in a snit.
This will provoke in my mother quite a fit
Because about her food she has some sensitivity.
I hate to provoke apoplexy with my proclivity.
So I beg you: around meal time have some sense,
And keep all my courses in their respective compartments.