A powder room they'd seek, A place to freshen up and take a peek. A private chamber, quiet and snug, Where nature calls, you'll feel quite smug.

Flaky French breakfast bread Pillsbury has a crescent version Which some might like instead But definitely not a Parisian

The front page of the internet they say, where sub-communities lead the way. Up arrows and down arrows show what you feel, endless scrolling makes time unreal.

Worn through, where whispers are heard. Olympic rounds, pierce for the words. Drums are near, where loops are hooked. Twice the wince, brings a studded look.

I’m a place of bars where no drinks are poured, Where sentences end without a word. No judge, no keys, yet heat decides, What am I where flavor resides?