Default settings changed
to ease the strain,
some got right by me,
Mortified I might
do this again.
Twiddled with the knobs,
reset the buttons,
Moderating so that
I won’t miss,
Always much appreciated, kindly,
take this poem as a virtual kiss.
This does mean, however,
that you’re pending,
And time is rarely seen
as my best friend
But I’d rather take the time
to answer always
Than risk the chance of
doing that again.
Apologies to kindly readers,
Don’t now know how many may have sneaked on by,
I’m trusting I can keep up, beg your patience,
Enemied by time but I will try.
Not my favourite type of pie. I much prefer rhubarb
With a touch of ginger. Tart but warming.
Or apple, sprinkled with cinnamon. Sweet but spicy.
Humble pie is bitter, sour tasting.
No matter what flavour it is topped with.
I swallow it with dread. And it goes over in lumps,
Choking on the way down.
But, once consumed,
It tastes sweeter, more full of flavour
Than any other.
For it means I had to say,
‘I’m sorry. I was wrong.’
As tough as that is to do, as hard as the crust may be-
It cuts at the throat –
To move on, it is necessary.
No matter what pie you love,