I'm slow as molasses 

Running uphill

In January,

And I'm not sweet

Like honey is.

I've got a wild whang to my dark syrup,

From an ancient strain of sorghum 

That goes way, way back.

And maybe you'd prefer maple

With your butter,

With your toast,

Sometimes I do, too.

But if you have a taste for gingerbread,

Nothing else will ever do.

Molasses puts a tingle on your tongue

That you won't soon forget.

-jenn