What is It?

You may talk about the dishes which the gods serve passing well,

Also sing about the nectars which the bees sip in the dell;

You may laud the foreign dainties which the foreign chaps prepare,

I can mention one excelling anything from anywhere.

It is baked within the oven and is opened steaming hot,

And a chunk of golden butter is inserted in the slot;

It is crowned with crimson matter swathed in lumps of luscious cream,

It is like a hill of rubies rising from a crystal stream.

I could sing and sing forever of this wondrous dish supreme,

Of the berries and the butter, of its cake and of the cream;

I could name it, but I will not, it would only make you sore;

I will cease my flowing fountains and go out and get some more!

May 13, ‘09