Since bread, nor corn, nor beans, nor grand turkey
But puissant cranberry o’er-sways their taste,
Thy ridges, uniform in majesty,
Might render the word “parallel” disgraced.
A proud and noble sauce that shall stand firm,
Corn syrup and conviction hold it well;
A texture for which language has no term,
A little less than jelly, more than gel.
O! How thy armor of aluminum
Protects thee from the cran-less world outside,
Where by the can-opener’s plaintive hum
Thou may be freed, and thou may free thy pride.
No cylinder has more potential than
The cranberry can be within the can.