Throughout the course of life, many strange and wondrous things happen to us all. For some of us, we develop a certain penchant for things that may or may not be good for us or, at the very least, not as good for us as we first thought. Some of these things we crave come in the form of certain kinds of food whether that be a desire to eat a jar of hot pickles, devour a super large, all meat pizza, or those cravings for a total binge of pie. To those who never have had those midnight desires for food that could choke a horse, I say that you probably have never developed that keen sense of stuffing your face when no one is looking.

Maybe, some of these outlandish foodstuffs cravings followed you from your early days. I so often remember, with mouth drooling anticipation, those meringue-covered rhubarb custard pies made by my mother. This is not to say that my appetite didn't relish many other kinds of pies including butter pecan, cherry, apple, dutch apple (oh so sweet and yummy), raisin, lemon, coconut cream, and blueberry. Oh, dear; maybe that is why I am now a diabetic. But, back to that more than delicious rhubarb custard pie that called me to invade the kitchen late at night while the rest of the household was fast asleep.

Now, truth be told, I'm not sure why that pie seemed to lose volume overnight when questions arose as to this unusual occurrence. Maybe, the pie shriveled somewhat from being left out on the kitchen counter I did reply. As the port so aptly writes, berry pie can also be one's downfall. But, what is life without some small indulgences that always creep back into one's life so unexpectedly? Here is the rub - to those so caught within the snare, be sure to always give and share. It's not that pie is bad, I say; it's only that it lasts a day.

We hope that this funny poem brings a smile to your face. Arthur Franklin Fuller writes in an amusing way about life and the things that may ail us. Cute as the poem is there is also a serious message in it regarding excesses in life.

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Poet: Arthur Franklin Fuller

The doctor sez my stummick,
Has got plumb out o'fix,
My liver has done wasted —
Seeds jam my ap-pen-dix.

My skin keeps on a yallerin,
My lease is hastenin by,
In short, I'm totely founderin,
From too much berry pie.

I wish that my Creator
Had made old Adam keep
Right in the straight and narrow,
An' let his senses sleep.

But since he chose the habit
Of cravin' things too high,
I feel I've got excuses
For wantin' berry pie.

Now when life's day is over —
All done with hopes and fears —
The fashion is to tender
Sweet flowers and salty tears.

I wish my friends would do this,
The day before I die,
And let their fond affections
Be 'spressed in juicy pie.

I'll then climb in the coffin,
Without a qualm or sigh,
And take the plunge full-stummicked,
With 'nuff of berry pie.

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