Classic Poem

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!

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,
Vicarious sacrifice
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!