O gentle platter, rimmed with ear of clay,
Thy belly rich in breaded lore doth sway.
Pretzel, peasant king, dost curl with pride,
Whilst bagel moons along thy spangled hide.
Ye cradle crusts from dawn through supper’s end,
And catch the laughter crumbs the fates do send.
Thy handles — arms of dance, of bake, of bind —
Hold pastries fast, yet free the hungered mind.