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!