this little pastry i make from my thoughts
gooey hooey mushy pastry of slush
solemn ballyhoo concerted hodge-podge
making sense only in the inside
but this pastry is meant for all outside
now no one is willing to take a look
here is all the mess i thought i could cook
must i keep all these dishes to myself
this little pastry i alone can take
which my ilk and folk taunt around as fake
i spend my time which they say is money
thinking what i make might be called honey
now the plebs and bourgeois toff look and huff
as they fluff my stuff and call it a guff
i squirm like twerp firm like churn chirp like birds
this pie may be good after all for birds
this little pastry people make me hate
may not be a waste but have a great taste
it may bring some hays herds will appreciate
though it serves not the purpose...it was raised
come birds come turds come old fogeys come nerds
we may find some reason to chew our curds
since they have told themselves not to want us
we will have the taste that will not taunt us
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