“Zesty, piquant, rich at heart”
describes his favorite sort of tart.
Tender to the touch and bite,
a bit of crust and formed just right.
He likes one after every meal,
his appetite to seek to seal.
A zesty wench presents the tray
as soon as the meal’s cleared away.
A tart a night may meet his lips,
yet not one goes upon his hips,
for no cream or cherry pie
is what tempts his tongue and eye.
His tarts come without calories:
Veronicas and Valeries.
In two weeks, he has had a dozen—
the serving girl, and then her cousin.
Which tart tonight will he prefer?
Will it be custard, fruit, or her?
The sort he likes is just the latter,
his tarts cannot fit on a platter.
The prompt word today was “Tart.”