There once was a race of cake men

equally divided between

birthday and wedding types,

each born into whatever flavor

was selling that day—

usually chocolate or vanilla,

but towards the end Neapolitan-

whose faith was strong.

 

They succumbed to the next door

country of cake eaters,

who reveled in their two week

long cake eating festival.

 

The eaters would line up with

their forks and plates

and slice off a big piece of

cake men as they fled to

the nearby country of pie people

who granted them asylum and citizenship

because their people were

mainly rhubarb and mincemeat

and we’re suffering through fruit blight

that was destroying their fabled variety.

 

Soon the festival yielded

to a full scale invasion.

You see, the cake eaters were

tired of waiting in the sample line.

They ate the cake men to the last crumb.

 

With all the cake gone they ate the pies.

But by then the idea of cake was a lie.

The cakes were now  mostly pies.

 

When the last forkful of pie

was in the cake eaters mouth

it screamed:

 

I will not be eaten by anyone

who can not see my beauty.

 

The eaters never thought that a cake

could be admired and never eaten.

They had no sense of the art and beauty

that was the filling of the cake/pie men’s faith

 

That last bite of pie became poisonous

and from then on the cake eaters

(who were now forced to make their own)

could never fully have their cake and eat it

without throwing up or dying.

They were now forever doomed to eat

their meat and vegetables.