Wee sleekit coorin' timorous dessert,
Topped with cherries and a fresh cream squirt,
I see you tremble with anticipation,
As my spoon comes close to your sugar nation.
Oh, if ever a pudding could be blessed with legs,
Your fragile self but the whites of eggs,
And you cannot run as my spoon descends,
A lick, a lip-smack, and your life ends.
It is no longer a world of mousse and man,
But of empty bowl and whipped cream can,
So, pudding, reflect on the vagaries of fate,
While I lick my spoon and clean my plate.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved