|Ne'er to be gazed upon again|
Since leaving England in June I've not since had a Twinkie, and I'm now worried that I may never again. I hear there's a shop in the next town over that sells them, and I'm hoping the student collective hasn't their finger as on the pulse of American confectionary news as I, and that I'm able to stockpile a few before the inevitable. I've not been as saddened by the loss of a foodstuff as when I recently realised (with a violent spasm of woe) that Mars Delight is no longer sold round these parts. A poem then, to commemorate this dreadful fucking day, with respect and condolence to mouths everywhere.
Rest ye, Twinkie, in hunger's heaven: yours is that perch atop;
It is not yours to look down; to see you, we need only look up.