What malarkey! Let’s start with the bread that they crumbled –
it wasn’t the last dinner dealt
to a woodcutter’s children whom hardship had humbled,
but eight-bucks-a-loaf quinoa-spelt.
And those kids were escaping from some highfalutin
and health-conscious borough in haste;
having heard of my haven of sugar and gluten,
they desperately wanted a taste.
How I pity such tots, with their sad deprivations:
the flavorless tofus and greens,
the zucchini-banana-and-hemp-seed libations,
the M&M-free Halloweens.
So I fed them! They loved me! They called me their auntie!
I gave every possible treat!
(Till the day that I gobbled them down with spumante.
We selfless old hags have to eat.)
