Above the mountains high a godly sphere
The snow-capped hills and vales so deeply green,
A lush view speaks of fingers crumbling pies
Divinely minted master chefโs delight,
Below dead lakes the cods sit silently
Their final bills unpaid their race away
Curtailed, with nothing left but crumbling pies
The master chef has left them all behind,
Of metaphorical pies this speaks one truth
One voice we silently abused before:
Let go, fly high, towards the sky of pies.ย
