Pastried Mothballs
Seven pastried mothballs brumbled down a banister—
pecked up, then, by Loretta Hen and cached inside a canister.
(This seems to be a nursery rhyme that makes no sense, at all,
and yet we smile and realize we’re having quite a ball,
so carry on) and then she did, to pawn her preserved pastries,
when sidled by an Ordered Thumb who said, “Let us say grace, please.”
“Oh, reverend sir, you are so fine,” gushed the blushing Henny,
“then by your leave, I’ll spare you one for no more than a penny.”
With a genuflect and scrape Thumb started to depart,
then, SNAP!, returned, and not alone, which startled Henny’s heart.
“Blee hah!,” roared he, “The copper rolls and hardly ever lingers,
so I shall seize these pastries now, myself and these four fingers!”
“Oh rogue, oh fraud, oh wooly wolf…me thought you holy, Thumb…
but, gracious days, I should have clucked and not have been so dumb.”
With wings akimbo, with beak abluster, for days did Henny brood,
while groaning Thumb had come to find that mothballs don’t taste good.
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