The Potbelly Cupcake

I am the Woolie Panini, freshly pressed but now extinct.
I ask, "where have all my dressings gone," to be succinct,
but we all know we all live to bite the code of birth
and treachery is peppery and basking in its girth.
Wouldst thou taste of me were I the last, if I were to ask?

I am, relatively, where, but could be who, so, what deceives?
"Neigh," says I, "the lone equine gets stuck in his sleeves!"
That which owns shant enjoy my flaked and buttered stones.
I process thy thoughts of me and adjust my lettuce backbones,
for a nibble is free but the meal is me, can't you see?