I wish you would not mention it,
It gives me so much pain! —
Too soon by half I always know
'Tis baking day again! —
From pie to pie they hurry me, —
Loaves — tarts — preserves — and crusts —
And though I've not a moment's peace,
I cry — " What must be, must!"

They bid me seek a change of fruit,
The charms which others see,
But — cherries — currants — plums — or pears —
They're all the same to me! —
'Tis true, I do not pluck the things,
Or clean 'em from the dust,
But though I don't — it's such a bore! —
Although " What must be, must!"

They tell me pies are wanted now,
And eaten every day, —
They say they'll always have 'em too —
I only wish they may!
For my part, I'm so very sick
Of baking tarts and crust, —
I don't much think they'll catch me long,
To say — " What must be, must!"
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