In one of my education classes we were asked to write a poem comparing ourselves to our favourite food. This activity was not marked, as one could infer from my submission:

My palms are greasy like your face
When you fill my stomach’s empty space
And your sweet soft buns of wheat
Are like my own buns on this seat
Let us not forget your saucy side
Which isn’t me, although I’ve tried
To emulate your saucy ways
And the way you fill up fast-food trays
But I’m much too skinny to be you, friend
So I’ll just be me in the end
And eat you from the charcoal grill
Oh hamburger, I love you still.

. . . It's not Wordsworth, but I like it.