With lashings of apologies to William Shakespeare, here is my sonnet number two:

When, in this smelly takeout stand with flies,
I all alone will eat the tofu plate
And forgo beef heaven and the soggy fries
And look upon my belt and all I ate,

Wishing me like to one with fish to cope,
Feasting like him, on tuna maki, pressed,
Desiring this ham sandwich that I could ope',
With what is most unhealthy, not possess'd;

Yet in these food fairs that I have been prizing,
Hap'ly I think on cheese, the cracker's mate,
Like to the oozing lava that's arising
From bubbling platters from the oven's gate;

For thy deep-dish pizza such health brings
That then I have to loose my sweatpants strings.