When given a choice,
Between ice cream,
And cookies piled high,
We (us kids, that is)
Shake our heads and say,
“I would like a glorious mud pie.”

Cool, refreshing, not just a treat.
It goes between your toes,
Even on your seat.

Squish, Squash, a brown so vivid
Splash, slosh, but now mom is livid.

Then we say,
“Hose us down, Mom!”
And after that,
She goes off like a bomb.

She’s says were too old,
To play with mud pies.
When we’re dripping and frozen,
We ask her why.

“Because every time
That you play with mud,
I get landed
Cleaning up crud.”

Sad blinks are exchanged,
By us little pie makers,
Then we look up
At the best cookie baker.

“Mom,” We say; a fake tear in my eye.
“We’re sorry that we played with mud,”
I think its working, (aren’t we sly?)
“Do you really think that we are crud?”

Mom is a softie,
So that wasn’t hard,
But now she plays
The Dad card.

“When dad comes home,
What will he say?”
“I don’t want to find out.
Let’s run away.”

“Don’t be a dope,
Now hand me the soap!”
“We can’t run away!”
“Mom would be sad.”
“I’d miss mom.”
“I would miss dad.”

“Yikes! It’s dad!”
The front door slams,
“What do we do?”
“Get the peanut butter,
I’ll get the jam!”

“I’ll get the bread!”
“Hurry now,
Or it’s of with our heads!”
“Out the door and into the woods!”
“We’re out of here.”
“Gone for good.”

“And where might you kids be going?”
“Quick, distract him.”
“Look dad, it’s snowing!”
“Dad’s not that dim.”

“Aaa! He’s after us!”
"Hold onto your heads!"
“Where are you going kids?
It’s time for bed.”

“He didn’t kill us.”
“I’ve still got my head!”
“It’s a miracle!”
“Now let’s go to bed.”

The moral of this poem is:
When given a choice
Between ice cream,
And cookies piled high,

... take the cookies.