Sunday Tart

The King of Hearts has had his share of tarts and ham.
Parts of him would like to go away,
Fake his own death and live like an actor in a play,
Or troubadour around from town to
Towne
And sing of the lucky beggar and the woeful king,
And he could sing it from the heart,
And would go and do it all
Were it not for ----- the Sunday Tart!

The Sunday Tart is a sunny outer crust
Baked to perfection with just a light dusting
Of the best milled flour.
A delicate stem of wheat is scratched
Into the dough just as it cooks
So it will show when it is done
Like a cartouche of ancient grain
Perfectly baked in foreign sun,
And inside, there is such a heavenly jam
That even the King has dared not ask,
"What fruit?" Nor does he give a damn to know,
For it is magic, mystic, sacred!
And to utter the holy secret would profane.
And so he quietly gobbles her
And never asks her name.

-jenn