Ode to Whoopie (Pie)
Two moist little round mounds of cake,
usually chocolate in make.
Stuffed with white stuff, I know not what.
Maybe cream, maybe butter,
maybe corn syrup the bad.
So sweet and so delicious, it’s a pleasure to be had.
Press tenderly on those pliant brown mounds.
Firmer and the cream will flow.
Catch it quick, with tongue or finger,
don’t dare miss a bit.
Their likeness uncanny,
the pretenders are many.
There’s Ring Ding, Yodel, Oreo and Suzy Q.
None of them give the magnificent Whoopie its due.
I’ve had them in pumpkin, in chocolate chip, mint and
but for me only the chocolate with the white stuff will do.
From Maine to Cape Cod,
Whoopie’s legend is secure.
But in the Big Apple, they’re just not so sure.
Whoopie’s humble appearance—no
glaze, no sprinkles, no frosting adorns it—is
surely a deception,
this pie is simply pure perfection.
So eat your silky mousse,
your dark ganache, your sweet red velvet cupcakes.
For me, I’ll feast on the Pie of Whoopie
until my jaw aches.