Fickle, fickle, Little Anne.

Though she never planned for this to pass,

Couldn't choose between a pickle and a pie.

So instead,

She took her bread and butter, and

Buttered, buttered, buttered

Her Bread.

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.

END


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.