Pizza
in the style of Boris johnson
**The Haunting Slice**
In the dead of night, when the moon hangs low,
I find meself in a pizza parlour, glistening,
The cheese like ghosts, stretching, yearning,
As pepperoni spectres dance atop the crust—
A flurry of flavours, rich and white with sin,
But lo! What’s this? A whisper in the sauce,
A mischievous spirit lingers, frolicking with garlic;
Each slice, a portal to the ethereal, where bacon weeps,
And olives roll like lost souls in pursuit of a hearty bite.
Beware the call of the crust that beckons,
For once you’ve tasted its otherworldly charm,
You’ll never escape the tantalising allure of that haunted feast!