There once was a pecan pie,
glistening on the stove,
when along came Sally,
eight years old.
A true nut-lover, this girl was,
and she plucked the nuts from the goo,
noshing on them till the pie was bare,
and went back to her room.
Then along came Pistachio and Braggadocio
(“Brag” for short)—
the two dogs of the family Foyle.
Pistachio stood up, putting his big paws on the range,
Brag waiting for some of the spoils.
Then in came Mrs. Foyle,
and, upon seeing the pie,
no longer the apple of her eye,
wagged a finger and
wielded a rolled-up newspaper.
The dogs dared not linger.
She shook her head and said,
“Just as good as a confession”,
while Sally gave them each a bone,
consolation for reaping wrath
for what she had sown.
And Sally, sticky with guilt,
went to tell her mom
that nuts made her wheeze,
and from then on,
Mrs. Foyle ate her pie at the Dewdrop Inn,
and Sally never went nutty with temptation again.
*So this poem has a bit of truth in it. When I was little and whenever my mom brought a pecan pie home (which she tried to hide on top of the fridge), I would (while she was sleeping) eat all the delicious, gooey nuts off, leaving the rest (which reminded me, strangely, of that sudsy, membranous stuff coming out of the pea pods in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”) and try to spread dry pecans over it in its place, which was, I confess, not a very good cover.