What it Means to Live and other poems

The Perfect Pie

I used to lament my baking, see,
I could never quite perfect my pies.
Never as they were supposed to be,
I would hear the song birds mocking me,
As they looked down on me from the skies.

I couldn't work out exactly where
I was going wrong.
Even altering my measurements a hair,
Didn't stop my pies appearing too fair,
Or too round, too soft or too long.

I started to tire of people's opinion;
Their tones were always so snide.
So I decided to stop acting like a minion;
Who said I had to bow to their dominion?
And I learnt to present my pies with pride.

No, they weren't the same as all the rest;
In fact, they were quite unique.
With a gift for difference, I was blessed
(that's why I deemed my pies the best,
Despite such harsh critique).

So let the birds sing what they must,
I'll still just keep on baking.
I don't care if they look down in disgust,
Judging my slightly wonky pie crust,
Because it's not only perfect; it's ground- breaking!