More Petrarchan Practice

Please give me some sugar laced through with fat:
Corn oil, butter, lard, whatever’s there;
And while you’re at it, let it be light as air,
As vault and loft as the tallest top-hat.
And then when you are finished doing that
You’ll squeeze yuzu on my tongue if you care
About my palate:  That way I can bare
To move my frame, be sprightly as a rat.

If yuzu is too hard to find, lime can
Do; so long as my buds are tartly dressed
My every taste will spell gratitude.
After all this, please let there be a man
Looks better than any bite, and he’s pressed
His hands round me—no more turn aside and brood.