Fickle, fickle, Little Anne.
Though she never planned for this to pass,
Couldn't choose between a pickle and a pie.
She took her bread and butter, and
Buttered, buttered, buttered
Poor Little Anne didn't know,
She had heartily eaten moldy bread,
My, oh my.
Little Anne's tum hurt so bad,
Even ginger ale would not suffice
To ease her pain.
Why, oh why,
Couldn't she have just eaten
Her pickle and pie.
I'm not sure how I happened to think of bread and butter. But anyways, I'm new to poetry, so feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Plus, I always make sure to return reviews.
Thank you for reading.