Alas, that day after Easter's dreary,
As I stagger, weak and bleary,
Over many a shredded and empty package of scarfed-up yellow gore,
For while I hunger, in near-coma,
Suddenly there comes this trauma:
Some awful vision tapping at my cravings' core
from my worst nightmare surcease of sugar--sugar that I adore,
For quoth the Last Peepster, "Until next year--there are no more!"

Then I reel, engaged in panic, screaming screaming as if manic,
for the luscious fowls caloric burning in my stomach's maw
have vanished from the shelves commercial, causing in my brain a bubble,
Thinking of that crusty coating
O'er marshmallow that I shall not be glomming
until I've passed out on the floor--
For quoth the Last Peepster, "Until next year--there are no more!"

And so the Last Peepster, never melting,
Still is sticking, STILL is sticking,
On the pallid bust of Richard Simmons above the refrigerator door;
And his Peepy eyes have all the tar
of a succubus that is never far
From my lusty sugar dreams, yes dreaming of that yellow gore,
and my soul swapped for marshmallow chickens in endless rows in every store--
For quoth the Last Peepster, "Until next year--there are no more!"