Your Crust Is Thin Poem by James McLain

Your pan I cannot dance around, it is full not to wide
I use only two knuckles, the Aurea is twenty one
club maternal soft yet firm.
The heat is like a little constantinople, smell of fresh
scents a spice I left as a small slice, in the middle to breath.
Juice lays sprayed about, from past pies moments hurried
berries flow, outward over rims bowl..as well as bread uncounted loaves....a smell this oven, will forever hold..........
still the crust is thin....I am in luck...with butters..one.stick....