Poetry Pie

Wouldn't it be nice,
If every poem I wrote
Could be scorched in the oven
And stuffed down your throat?

Yes, I'm certain you will cringe
As you take your first bite
Of this sour concoction
Known as poetry pie.

It's bitter, burning, blabbering.
It moans as you swallow.
It's impossible to digest.
It leaves you feeling hollow.

It's passable and pointless,
Divested and dry.
I could never bake
A decent pie.