The pie is counted sweetest
By those who eat but wheat.
To comprehend the nectar
Requires naught of meat.

Not one of all the fattened men
Who take their toast with tea
Can understand, quite the taste,
That comes by charity

To he whose life has been a slab
Rotting out in jail,
Whose meals consist of only gruel
And not a word of ale.

Whose pie this is I do not know.
I found it buried in the snow.
A treasure worthy of a king,
Its golden flakes in sunlight glow.

Do I deserve this tasty fare?
Did fate divine or chance ensnare
Me in this games of rights and wills?
In choosing now my soul to bare.

Your secrets masked from mortal eyes;
A pastry shell your best disguise.
But I must know what lies beneath,
For truth dwells in your inner prize.

I plunge in with a fork to wreak
Havoc on beauty so unique.
A heavy price for just one peek,
But man is selfish, base and weak.