Pies

Pies



If I were a pie,



And also had an eye,



Would I truly be



What everyone thinks of me?



Of course the question is obscure



But I am definitely sure



That you are an idiot,



Go screw yourself, my hideous midget.



This poem has been as sweet



As shards of glass being trampled over by feet.



If you do concur,



I will say, spitefully, that you are a fine Sir.



Now the minutes have been ticking by



And I am still not a pie.



How can this possibly be,



That I still don't want to take a pee?



Here, my last words are being spoken,



So have this little worded token.



I am, sadly, still not a pie,



But who are you to say "Goddammit dreadful writer, just die!"