It was love at first sight,
It was this that made me see the light.
Why not tell you the terrible tale,
Of my brief romance and its final fail?

You can say we bonded over taste,
It was this that started the problem we faced.
For my beloved was brought to the end,
It was too late, broken beyond mend.

I knew she was doomed from the start,
But I never left her side, too afraid to part.
It was love that kept me there,
Stupid or not, I had no choice but to care.

On the summer's day she had met her demise,
She sat at the table where she soon dies.
What happened to her may be shocking sure.
It was me.
I did it.
Of course I killed her.

But I did it lovingly.
I ate her.

How does it feel to know that this poem was written about a ham sandwich?