Classic Poem

There's a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn,
And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch at morn;
Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o' things to eat
An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend to cut the sweet,
But I run the whole list over, an' it seems somehow that I
Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk o' raisin pie.

There are pies that start the water circulatin' in the mouth;
There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an' sunny south;
Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite
An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o' real delight;
But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin' from the sky
There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o' raisin pie.

I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin' up myself.
As the judge an' final critic of the good things on the shelf.
I'm just sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on earth,
Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an' worth,
An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die,
That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk o' raisin pie.