THE pumpkin lies yellow, beneath the cold skies, it's luscious and mellow, and ready for pies. So tenderly bear it away from the vine, and slice it and pare it and mash it up fine; oh, put in the spices, surround it with crust, and then in three trices we'll eat till we bust! My appetite's balky and dull as can be, most viands look rocky, forbidding, to me. Away from the fritters I turn with a sigh, the coffee's like bitters, and stale is mince pie; the spud and the radish can tempt me no more; they make me feel saddish, the doughnut's a bore. I'm tired of the puddin', I'm sick of the cheese, of things that taste wooden, of parsnips and peas. They give katzenjammer, they weary the eyes; but loudly I clamor for pumpkiny pies! The pies that are golden, well seasoned, yet mild, from formulas olden, by housewives compiled! The gods on Olympus are uttering cries: "Oh, mortals, don't skimp us, but send us those pies! Our grub makes us bony, we're in a blue funk; ambrosia is phony, and nectar is punk!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUN'S TRAVELS by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON RIDDLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ELIJAH AND THE PRIESTS OF BAAL: IN A TIME OF FAMINE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE EPITAPH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE SUN-THIEF by RHYS CARPENTER LINES WRITTEN ON A PAGE OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW by WILLIAM COWPER EPISTLE TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND by SAMUEL DANIEL |