The Fox, The Crow, And The Cookie by Mew
Through mostly vacant streets, a baker from the outskirts of his town
Earned his living peddling sweets from the ragged cart he dragged around.
The clever fox crept close behind, kept an ever-watchful eye
For a chance to steal a ginger spice cake or a boysenberry pie.
Looking down was the hungry crow, "When the time is right, I'll strike
And condescend to the earth below and take whichever treat I'd like."
The moment the baker turned around to shoo the fox off from his cart,
The crow swooped down and snatched a shortbread cookie and a German chocolate tart.
Using most unfriendly words that the village children had not yet heard,
The baker shouted threats by canzonette to curse the crafty bird.
"You rotten wooden mixing spoon! Why you midnight winged racoon!
You better bring those pastries back, you no-good burned-black macaroon!"
The fox approached the tree where the bird was perched, delighted in his nest.
"Brother Crow, don't you remember me? It's your old friend Fox with a humble request.
If you could share just a modest piece, seeing as I distracted that awful man."
This failed to persuade the crow in the least, so the fox rethought his plan.
"Then if your lovely song would grace my ears, or to even hear you speak,
Would ease my pains and fears." The crow looked down with a candy in his beak.
"Your poems of wisdom, my good crow, what a paradise they bring!"
This flattery pleased the proud bird, so he opened his mouth and began to sing:
"Your subtle acclamation's true! Best to give praise where praise is due.
Every rook and jay in the Corvidae's been raving about me too.
They admire me, one and all. Must be the passion in my caw!
My slender bill known through the escadrille, my fierce commanding claw!"
I got a walnut brownie brain, and molasses in my veins,
Crushed graham cracker crust, my powdered sugared funnel cake cocaine.
Let the crescent cookie rise. These carob colored almond eyes
Will rest to see my cashewed princess in the swirling marble sky.
Will rest upon the knee, where all the visions cease to be
A root beer float in our banana boat across the tapioca sea.
When letting all attachments go, is the only prayer we know,
May it be so, may it be so, may it be so, oh