Herbert Nehrlich 2

Rookie (04-10-1943 / Germany)

For Stephanie (Who Invented The Donut) ***** - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich 2

Each jurisdiction has its laws,
for obvious reasons and because
folks tend to take much liberty
within the country of the free.

Hear ye, hear ye, I have a tale
which in comparison may pale,
to stories of the usual kind
let me explain if you don't mind.

A youngster, curly-haired and pretty
whose folks were middle class and witty
was known to think outside the square
due to, no doubt, her curly hair.

A balmy summer's afternoon
she'd fiddled with her silver spoon
and had decided that the meal
was rather tasteless, an ordeal

so Steph absconded to the street,
to exercise
her growing feet.
She skipped and danced away the time
and found a sycamore to climb.

All this exerted as you'd guess
a toll not only on her dress,
and soon she found her appetite
at 97 Fahrenheit.

She had, it must be mentioned here
been given toys and other gear
the Christmas just preceding and
received a pistol, premium brand.

Formidable this weapon was,
it flaunted California laws,
its reservoir of giant size
allowing Steph to chase the guys.

Not that she'd want to catch a suitor,
she needed targets as a shooter,
well I digress, that afternoon
when she had laid her eating spoon

onto the table in the den
she contemplated briefly, then
went down the road into the mall
gun-toting, briskly, walking tall.

There was a small establishment
whose products were a heaven-sent,
flat cakes they made, some filled with cream
it was a child's most precious dream.

As you appreciate one needs
some nourishment to follow deeds
like playing, skipping and the like,
it is essential for a tyke.

'How can we help you', said the man,
but Stephanie did have a plan,
she pulled her pistol out and said:
'A dozen flatcakes, else you're dead! '

There was as you appreciate
some raucous laughter, really, Mate,
a waterpistol, what a riot
'a box of cakes, yes, if you buy it.'

Without the benefit of any
more time to staff (and there were many)
she started shooting rather wildly
and scared the crew, to put it mildly.

And to protect they held the cakes
before their faces, as this makes
a shield they thought from all the squirts
they did not know if squirting hurts.

Thus, all the cakes which were quite flat
and had been baked in piggyfat,
were holed right in the center by
the ammo Stephanie let fly.

The man who owned the shop appeared,
and thought the situation weird,
he was, if anything, astute
and saw this little, rather cute

and curly haired determined one
with summer dress and water gun.
He also saw that all his cakes
had holes now, looking like poor fakes

but soon a thought rose from gray matter,
he would, he knew save plenty batter
by making cakes that lacked a middle
it was the answer to the riddle

of how, with marketing and tricks
one gets more dough (an idée fixe!) ,
he handed Stephanie a box
and also a small wad of stocks

which she would hide away to grow
it would expand like pastry dough.
So, Stephanie went home quite happy
not counting on the mood of Pappy,

he was a law-abiding fellow,
had not yet reached the age of mellow
and wise forgiveness in his life,
nor did he listen to his wife.

The story ends with Stephanie
returning to the scenery,
her crime demanded restitution
which was the logical solution.

She kept however all the stocks
(though not the pastry-laden box) ,
the stocks expanded as expected
and on the site was soon erected

a giant sign, DONUTS FOR ALL,
it was the best shop of the mall,
and now you know the donut fable
the silver spoon stays on the table.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, December 13, 2009

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