The Crisco'd crust rolled out in shattered shards -
I pasted them with water 'way from harm -
too cold, too wet, but rich with veggie lards -
the rolling should be when the dough's more warm.
From orchard pluck'd, the apples all arrayed
with cinnamon and sugar both mixed in,
lay in the crust, as thus directions bade.
I checked them in the oven once again.
The smoke detector rang - we opened doors.
The pie was bubbling with its blackened juice.
Yet, with its hour down, 'twas barely burned
with blackness from the oven's hell-hot roars.
'Twas justly done, a test-knife did adduce -
And so to perfect pieness we adjourned.