Four * Chest

Look at my Chest, please
On it I spilt some cheese.

Spoilt dairy getting in my *'s
I cleaned it off with many licks
So bad.  Super bad.
The cheese didn't taste good.

When your tongue is a parasite, cheese makes you sad
Especially when it comes from our dad.
He works wood with his tools
The cheese he brought home was expired.
Liquid dreams inspiring what transpired
There is still some cheese left on my chest.

I'm killing it here.  This poem is even worst than the last.
The cheese is still dripping down my chast (chest).