Piece of cake we say, too
simple, or a breeze, but no, I
never understood the meaning.
To easy to mistake it for
that pleasant something
though I’d weigh the chance
it came to pass as payment
for a nasty deed. A piece of
cake for me? Do I get to say
which sort? The answer will
of course dismay romantics;
you cannot chose your cake
and eat it – a trophy for display,
symbol of the heady sum of
good you’ve done within your
dastard’s deed; that’s why I say
I’ve never kept the need in mind
to pay with cake in bastard kind.
© 4 June 2007, I.D. Carswell
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