There’s a heap of pent-up goodness
in the yellow bantam corn,
And I sort o’ like to linger
round a berry patch at morn;
Oh, the Lord has set our table
with a stock o’ things to eat
An’ there’s just enough o’ bitter
in the blend to cut the sweet,
But I run the whole list over,
an’ it seems somehow that I
Find the keenest sort o’ pleasure
in a chunk o’ raisin pie.
There are pies that start the water
circulatin’ in the mouth;
There are pies that wear the flavor of
the warm an’ sunny south;
Some with oriental spices spur
the drowsy appetite
An’ just fill a fellow’s being
with a thrill o’ real delight;
But for downright solid goodness
that comes drippin’ from the sky
There is nothing quite the equal of
a chunk o’ raisin pie.
I’m admittin’ tastes are diff’runt,
I’m not settin’ up myself
As the judge an’ final critic of
the good things on the shelf.
I’m sort o’ payin’ tribute
to a simple joy on earth,
Sort o’ feebly testifyin’ to its
lasting charm an’ worth,
An’ I’ll hold to this conclusion
till it comes my time to die,
That there’s no dessert that’s finer
than a chunk o’ raisin pie.
