I'd like to weave a pretty rhyme
To send my Daily News.
What shall I do? In vain I woo
The too-exacting Muse;
In vain I coax the tyrant minx,
And this the reason why:
She will not sing a plaguy thing,
Because I've eaten pie.
A pretty pass it is, indeed,
That I have reached at last,
If I, in spite of appetite,
Must fast, and fast, and fast!
The one dear boon I am denied
Is that for which I sigh.
Take all the rest that men hold best,
But leave, oh, leave me pie!
Field sings the praises of pie in an even more poetic way when he names fellow poets and authors who equally enjoy the treat:
I hear that Whittier partakes
Of pie three times a day;
And it is rife that with a knife
He stows that pie away.
There's Stoddard—he was raised on pie;
And he is hale and fat.
And Stedman's cry is always "pie,"
And hot mince-pie at that!
Of course I'm not at all like those
Great masters in their art,
Except that pie doth ever lie
Most sweetly next my heart,
And that I fain would sing my songs
Without surcease or tiring
If 'neath my vest and else could rest
That viand all-inspiring!
What I object to is the harsh,
I'm forced to make if I partake
Of fair and proper pies;
The pangs I suffer are the pangs
To other sinners due.
I'd gladly bear my righteous share,
But not the others', too.
How vain the gift of heavenly fire,
How vain the laurel wreath,
If these crown not that godlike spot,
A well-filled paunch beneath!
And what is glory but a sham
To those who pine and sigh
For bliss denied, which (as implied)
Is pie, and only pie!
Well, since it's come to such a pass,
I boldly draw the line;
Go thou, O Muse, which way you choose,
While I meander mine.
Farewell, O fancies of the pen,
That dazzled once mine eye;
My choice may kill, but still, oh, still,
I choose and stand for pie!