Peanuts.

Pappy, the pansy. A peanut was he,
Always hung by his paletot, long as can be.
With a palaceous head he'd prance around town,
In his peanut palanquin, so safe and so sound.

Pappy, a peanut so happy was he,
People made him pallid, so shy and so meek.
Yet Pappy did palaver, with near and dear,
But with 'em outside folk, he'd be the master at palter.

Pappy never popped out of his peanut palace,
Lest should he trip o'er his morals or got little callous.
For no panglossian was our little Pappy,
Pappy pessimist peanut was he.

Yet Pappy wore a smile for every other nut,
And every other nut just called him a nut.
Pappy pranced around town, his own town,
A paradisaical world in which he'd grown.

Pappy the peanut grew paralogisic,
As Pappy began to ponder o'er much more than he bit.
Pappy pillaged his mind full of pilfered thought,
Rarely were they paregoric, more painful than not.

So Pappy the peanut, would just pandiculate each night,
Pop the plethora of pyknic thoughts with spite,
Sleep, his panacea, put him in pride opulent,
As a might platoon, pyrrhic o'er their opponents.

Pappy, the pansy. Still a peanut is he,

Still clutching his paletot, forever with glee.