The pudding was pungent.
That it was there was no doubt.
It smelled like kitten vomit.
And looked liked Kentucky grout.
No one could figure out why.
No one had any single clue.
Why the pudding was pungent
And stuck like the stickiest glue.
Some blamed the eggs that were used.
Some blamed yesterday’s milk.
Some blamed the pot that was used.
Others blamed cooks in general and their ilk.
It was none of my business.
It was none of my never mind.
So of course I had to stick my nose into the matter
And see if the truth I could find.
I talked to the cook.
And I talked to the priest.
I spoke to the suppliers
Who supplied the milk, the eggs, and the yeast.
That is when I realized
A truth deeply profound.
I opened a nearby cookbook and read.
And the truth was uncovered and found.
There was not a thing wrong with the milk
And the eggs were off of the hook.
But the problem was found
And confessed by the cook.
“I made a mistake.
I was tired and could not think straight.
I meant to grab the sugar and molasses
I grabbed the yeast by mistake.”
“And I accidently put in potato peels
From last Lent
And a gargle of garlic leaves, leeks and onions
That were well-past spent.”
“So, that is why the pudding was pungent
And looked like vomit and dire swill.
I am sorry everyone lost their appetites
And became so terribly ill.”
I went back to my station
Feeling pleased and content
For I had solved the mystery
Of the pungent pudding.
And I hadn’t had a bite.