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To Little Debbie


Child of angelic sweetness, can it be

that Little Debbie has a snack for me?


No baker, but a hungry bachelor,

I wander through the bright convenience store


encumbered with a six-pack and a quart

of drinkables, when something stops me short:


an icon of American girlhood,

a guarantee of all that’s fine and good


a goddess in a paper statuette

and Little Debbie is her epithet.


If ever store-bought cookies can appease,

the ones that do display your chubby knees.


If oatmeal cremes and brownies satisfy,

or devil’s food can tempt a saint to buy,


it’s only when your dimpled cheeks are on it,

under the halo of your white straw bonnet.


Chock full of sugar, chocolate and spice,

a sheen of cellophane around each slice,


fresh as the day your tiny mitt revealed

these glories from the oven, promptly sealed,


the myriad confections of your art

enrich the aisle and fill my shopping cart.


How red the waves of hair that lap your face

how white your little apron, trimmed with lace!


What hymn of adoration can express

the splendor of your blue-checked gingham dress?


The girl who lets her salt pour when it rains

would kill to have your scuffless Mary Janes.


Jane Parker, Poppin’ Fresh, and Sarah Lee

grow stale with envy of your cookery.


O busy housewives, husbands on the go,

students and teachers, all of you should know


that what her trademark slogan says is true:

yes, Little Debbie has a snack for you.