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The Pillsbury Dough Man

The Pillsbury Dough Man has a workshop up in the sky—

After hours only.

When lights are turned off below,

In factories and shops

And the blazing sun, fatigued and hot, retires

The whistle blows and the oven is ignited.

The Pillsbury Dough Man emerges fresh and cool—

Up in the sky preparing his hot,

Crescent rolls

The butter drips down below,

Touching green leaves—

Glazing the grass with a moist dew—

You stand agape, head slightly tilted up

And welcome the smooth drops.

They glide down your throat,

And creep between your bare toes

In the deep grass—

Below, the milkman commands the Mrs.

To change the channel and get him a beer.

The children frolick

n the honey-coated grass.

Mrs. Casper calls the cop

And Mr. Jones spots a crescent-shaped, butter-dipped UFO.

The Pillsbury Dough Man patiently awaits the final batch—

And spreads a hot plump one with maple marmalade.

The sun peeks through heaven’s window,

Shining on the empty beer can at the milkman’s humble abode.