I want to crunch you, my McIntosh, bite by bite,
My incisors sink full length into sweet pulp.
Pear is not for me, although it tastes quite right,
I prefer an apple to deceive my senses,
Little bit by bit until my brain is melted.
 
My huge desires for your taste shamelessly tighten,
Whether you're Jonathan, Spartan, or you name it!
I want an apple full of dreams, before this Sunday,
'Cause Hesperides or all snakes don't make me frightened.
 
Without you grey fog spreads out sadness at my feet,
Groans of longing and dreams hanging between launching.
You better ripen in the sun. I am your Pink Lady,
Let's start to lose our minds in poetry of crunching.