|An empty bowl is a sad thing. Dirty, too. Where's that maid?|
I suffered through her explanation. But look, the one circle I care about is my bowl. Whether it's full or not is the only thing I'd even dream of calculating at suppertime.
But in honor of Pi Day, and looking ahead to National Canine Poetry Fortnight, I herewith present my Pi poem. The syllables represent the first few digits of pi, which, I learned, is 3.141592653...and since pi is infinite, food is the optimal subject of my poem. Just don't try to measure my diameter. Paws off!
For the Love of Pi (e)
Tell you true.
love pie, pie, pie.
Apple, cherry, plum
All make scrumptious pickings for my tum.
Should even try to take
Precious pie away—
Hear me bay.
Awooooooooo ad infinitum