Thumb Print Scone

Ah, the muse!  There I was, lazing over a coffee, and she sideswiped me.  A small girl holding most of a thumb print scone…a nibble already ingested…several crumbs clung desperately to her lips.  It was her!  My muse! and once again, in a most unexpected, altho always welcome, guise.

                         Thumb Print Scone

The little girl told me,

Speaking most earnestly, that

She was sitting behind me, well,

Not exactly behind me,

First, her mother

And then her.

And I had to agree,

Seeing that it was, indeed,

So.

 

And since she

Had told me a Truth,

And it was capital ‘T’

Truth, for her,

I felt duty bound

To return the compliment.

I told her to stick her thumb into the jam

In the middle of her thumb print scone,

And lick it,

Her thumb, that is.

I told her that’s why they are called

Thumb print scones.

So, she did,

And she was satisfied.

 

Her mother too

Felt pleased.

She had always wondered why

They were called that.

 

See,

I, too

Can dispense wisdom.

 

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