​I love my food, I won’t deny, from soup to steak, from pie to fry. If flavors call, I always run, a marathon of bites, well done. ​But soon my belly swelled with pride, my shirts grew tight, my waist grew wide. The world had words, a bitter sound, I laughed, sighed, then stood my ground. In Delhi’s streets, the spices sing: biryani bright, butter chicken’s wing. A sweet gulab jamun melts like gold, a tale of sugar softly told. Naples spins its pizza round, pasta rivers can’t be drowned. Tiramisu with coffee breath, a kiss of cream that cheats at death. Beijing’s duck with lacquered skin, dumplings warm, fried rice within. The wok still hisses, sharp and fast, a dragon’s breath that’s built to last. Tacos dance in Mexico’s square, tamales steam in scented air. Churros whirl in sugared streams, a carnival baked into my dreams. Paris wakes with buttered light, croissants flake at dawn’s first sight. A torchlit crack of brûlée flame, and life in France is never tame. Sushi rolls in quiet grace, ramen bowls a warm embrace. Okonomiyaki flips with pride, a samurai pancake at my side. Jollof rice with fiery cheer, Nigeria’s drums are loud and clear. Suya crackles, puff-puff sweet, a Lagos feast beneath my feet. Brazilian nights with samba sound: feijoada rich, brigadeiros round. Pão de queijo, cheesy flight, a carnival bound in firelight. Baklava drips its honey rain, souvlaki spins on Grecian flame. Moussaka layers, myth on myth, a taste of gods, a mortal’s gift. Australia feeds with pies of meat, lamingtons stack their sugared treat. New Zealand slow-cooks hangi pride, hokey pokey laughs beside. My fork will lead me, fork my guide, with no one else to walk beside. I'll write my name in every spice, and eat the world,a paradise.