THE WARMTH, THE CALL, OF APPLE PIE
Thus, we clean up after the tryptophan tornado
Slow moving, drugged, sated, slipper wearing zombies
Picking at the ruins of fun, feast and folly
Wondering why the soon to come fat guy is so jolly
Pants – let out – for comfort sake
A slumbering room of football fakes
And then that scent, of my, oh my
The warmth, the call, of apple pie
I know it’s wrong, this pie I’m stuffin’
Will turn an epicure into a glutton
As the leaves drift slow to the earth
I must give my girth its worth.
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