I have fond memories of you, Pocky.
I remember buying you as a six-year-old,
spending my pitiful allowance (that doesn’t exist anymore)
on you  but you were cheap then and what better was there?
My friends call you pah-key.
Go poke an e.
I collect the boxes you come in.
I’m not sure why.
You’re much too expensive and don’t fill me up.
Not that that keeps me from buying you.
I ate three boxes of you in thirty minutes.
I have no regrets.
My mother claims the only true flavor is chocolate,
which is the best but strawberry costs less and still tastes pretty good.
I think you know my every weakness.
I’m trying to get my mom to take me to Tokyo (the store)
so I can stock up on you so that I don’t die of sugar deprivation.
The other day I tried your milk flavor.
It took all my willpower not to eat more than one.
I wish I could make you last longer.
I like to take all of you out of the box at once and take one satisfying big bite
and then eat you one stick at a time, like normal people do.
Amongst my friends you seem to be a fashion statement,
Oh-look-how-much-I-know-and-love-Japanese-culture
(which seems to have been narrowed down to you, anime and sushi).
For some reason you seem healthy.
Probably because the nutrition facts are in Japanese.
I want to move to Japan just so I can have you anytime I like.
You’re so addicting it hurts.
Don’t tempt me any more.
You’re so amazing you’ve been copied off of more than once.
The other day I decided to work for Glica and
reinvent the American idea of snacks.
Who needs Doritos when you have Pocky?
Dorito flavored Pocky—
no, never mind.
I wish they had you in caramel.
I think that’s the only flavor they don’t have.
I have dreams about you frighteningly often.
Is that strange?
If I were in a Pocky-eating contest I would win.
I wish you were the size of those equally addicting
chocolate-covered pretzels I used to spend all my money on.
It’s hard to share a box of Pocky.
If only you weren’t so bad for me.
You should really think about offering yourself in a reduced calorie pack.
You would make millions.
I wish every day were Pocky day.
I’m sick of being obsessed with you.
When will you leave me alone?