Four and twenty blackbirds were baked into a pie But one escaped this wicked fate and soared into the sky Felt freedom touch her wingtips in the rushing of the air Four and twenty heartaches tinged her lightness with despair Time passed by and she became exhausted by her grief Made a resolute decision to seek some sweet relief Enrolled in college Studied hard Until she was the best A world class master baker A fabled pastry chef Her piece de resistance was loved by blackbirds far and wide Four and twenty bakers, all baked into a pie
How did you find this week’s Sunday rhyme time? It’s often deep and meaningful on a Sunday, but every now and then the muse gets a little more playful, if a little macabre. This one was inspired by a blackbird I saw having a bath in a puddle, and of course by a nursery rhyme (gruesome things that they are).
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