Picky Picky

I drift ‘round dinner tables like I’m scouting for a secret,

Every scent, every shimmer—yeah, I clock it when I meet it.

Got a palate with a compass that refuses to mislead,

But the greens glare sharp and the sauces over-plead.

Shift the plate left—nah, wait—pull it back with suspicion,

‘Cause even choosing one small bite feels like a curated decision.

⸻

I’m picky picky, habits run deep and sticky,

Tastebuds stubborn, rhythm slow and picky.

If it don’t feel right, I’m not gonna pick it—

Yeah, I’m picky, picky-picky, unapologetically picky.

⸻

Crunch too sharp? I’m gone. Texture wrong? I retreat,

And the velvet-soft stuff? Nope—too tame, too sweet.

I keep a checklist tucked in a half-worn note,

Where the bold flavors rise and the bland ones never float.

I weigh every bite with my quiet intuition,

Even simple meals spark a private inquisition.

⸻

I’m picky picky, habits run deep and sticky,

Tastebuds stubborn, rhythm slow and picky.

If it don’t feel right, I’m not gonna pick it—

Yeah, I’m picky, picky-picky, unapologetically picky.

⸻

Call it callous, call it cultured, call it taste refined by time,

But my appetite’s a compass with a strangely steady line.

I’ll try something new when the moment settles right,

When the vibe’s calm, warm, and the flavors feel polite.

Till then I linger, choosing slow, choosing clear,

Following the quiet voice my senses always steer.

⸻

I’m picky picky, habits run deep and sticky,

Tastebuds stubborn, rhythm slow and picky.

If it don’t feel right, I’m not gonna pick it—

Yeah, I’m picky, picky-picky, unapologetically picky.