# Once I was a-walking, in Stock I think it be #
# I chanced upon some hobbits, all dancing round a tree #
# Some pork lay on a table, and butter, bread and ale #
# But there was no pie, and I don't know why! #
# Later in the evening, when I was walking home #
# I came upon a lady - she must've weighed eight stone! #
# Now, she was carrying groc'ries, some mushrooms and a quail #
# But she had no pie, and I don't know why! #
# I went to a party, a friend had come of age #
# We partied till the morning, oh! what a sight from stage #
# The food was real abundant, yet there was one complaint: #
# For there was no pie! And I don't know why. #
# Now my uncle Burdoc, bucolic as they come #
# He grows his own stock mushrooms, and vittles he has some #
# Yet once upon a visit, he nearly made me faint! #
# For he had no pie, and I don't know why. #
# Then one night in Woodhall, I chanced upon a cook #
# We went into her larder, and oh! what time it took
# to taste through all her vittles, all smelling oh so good #
# But she'd baked no pie, and I don't know why. #
# Still, she got me thinking, why don't I make my own? #
# So I took up my cooking, with fruit that I had grown #
# Relentlessly, I practiced, until they called it 'food' #
# So now I bring pie, and you all know why! #
(Tune unfinished *sighs*)
