Like a lightning bolt in a bayou storm that strikes
without warning, Cupid’s coy cousin arrives.
Spawn from the delta, she’s known as Fat Mama,
Southern Fried Love Goddess, queen of the lush cuisine,
guardian of skillets, and she’s cooking it up tonight.
She’s the cornmeal on catfish and the buttermilk in biscuits.
She’s the habanero that makes your mouth burn, emitting her
sizzling-hot sensations to the erotic region of the brain.
She’s a soul-food restaurant in the middle of nowhere,
flashing bright neon lights to the lonely with appetites.
She stirs up longing, which is a recipe for lust.
Fat Mama turns ho-hum into handsome and average
into irresistible in the twinkling of an eye.
She can rinse away all hesitation with one swig,
quicker than peach sorbet melts on the tongue.
She’ll have you licking your lips and behaving like
a love-starved fool. She’s a stacked deck of temptation
with her poison dart dipped in a silky filé of seduction,
infused with desire, squarely aimed at those
she deems most in need of a shot in the dark.
Fat Mama is all about making good better.
She’s crawfish etouffee from New Orleans.
She’s a freshly poured cup of Chickory Blend.
She’s the slice of sweet potato pie that broke the diet—
so delicious, there should be a sin named after her.
Call her the Johnny-Appleseed of passion,
propagating an orchard full of forbidden fruit.
If you don’t believe it, just watch how fast
new saplings spring up when Fat Mama tosses her
half-eaten apple aside, spilling its seeds from the core.