O' Stale Pastry,
gaunt and gray,
I ate you on
a better day.
Your flaky shell's
like a crab gone dry,
so sour it could
make me cry.
I sadly lick
your moldy pulp
and you are gone
in one pained gulp.
I miss when you
were buttery--
you made my heart
all fluttery.
But fungus sprouts
along your ridges
which are alive
with ticks and midges.
Once upon
a time ago,
your frosting gleamed
like tie-dye snow,
steaming hot
from the oven's womb.
Now you rest
in a cardboard tomb.
Yet still I eat you
and I pray
to eat a fresh
croissant one day.
