Hard On Mother

He wrote a poem on the pies

     That mother used to make;

He sent it to a magazine,

     Alas, it didn’t take.

It told about those good old pies,

     So tempting and so sweet,

Until you hankered for a piece

     Of mother’s pie to eat.

It dwelt upon the crispy crust,

     The luscious pumpkin brown;

He couldn’t understand at all

     Why they should turn him down.

And so he sought the editor

     Who thus the truth did break:

“Dear sir, your verses were too much

     Like mother used to make.”

Feb. 23, ‘05