The oven door hinges like a drawbridge of old,
Releasing a steam cloud, courageous and bold.
On the counter, the cardboard, a fortress of white,
Holds the circular spoils of a long Friday night.
But peace is a phantom, a thin, crispy lie,
Once the scent of the garlic hits everyone’s eye.
The Great Topping Conflict begins with a glare,
As Dave eyes the pineapple, mid-kitchen air.
“It’s fruit!” screams the General, a purist named Phil,
“A crime against gluten, a blow to the grill!”
But the Hawaiian Insurgents, with ham as their shield,
Refuse to retreat or to ever give yield.
The Meatball Battalion marches in grease,
Ensuring that napkins will never find peace.
They clash with the Vegans, the Spinach Brigade,
Who fight for a crust where no cow has been laid.
The cutting wheel rolls like a chariot of doom,
Dividing the landscape across the tiled room.
“That slice is much bigger!” the youngest one cries,
With tactical envy deep in his eyes.
A mozzarella wire-trip, a burn on the roof,
Of a mouth that was seeking for hot, cheesy proof.
The parmesan shakers, like cannons, they roar,
Dusting the crusts in a white, salty war.
By the time of the cleanup, the casualties stack:
Three crusts in the corner, EGB turned slack.
The box lies defeated, a greasy remains,
Of a battle for flavor and localized gains.
We sit in the silence of carb-heavy bliss,
Sealing the pact with a napkins’ dry kiss.
For though we may bicker and fight for the slice,
Cold pizza for breakfast is worth any price.
This is fabulous!