When you have a taste for grain
And wouldn’t mind a healthful gain
Let me point out something good
That most have not yet understood—
If you wish to seize the fruitful day
Wheateena is the name you’ll say
And as Mom tends the pot, she’ll say
She’s glad you picked this wholesome grain
With which to start your wak’ning day
For your heart will sing & your waist won’t gain—
Mothers have long understood
This huskéd wheat is more than good
The taste is nutty, brown and good
And more than taste, you’re bound to say
The texture must be understood:
Far past the feel of normal grain
A squeaky, silky, toothsome gain—
Like cunnilingus to break the day
And as the priming bolus of the day
Takes its course for cleansing good
(Your stomach’s, bowel’s, and sphincters’ gain)
More surreal than cereal will you say
This is no common, mortal grain
At least not as we have understood
For if ‘neath Apollo’s stable you were under-stood
And, open-mouthed, caught the chaff of brilliant day
That o’erflowed the golden manger’s grain
You’d not believe it could be quite so good
That human words could ever say
The power of your sense of gain.
For who can speak the divine gain
And who has be-fore understood
To dis-till blood to ichor, one need but say
This sing-song name to start the day
And that what had been your sense of good
Was incomplete before this grain?
So eat your bowl, go forth, and loudly say
That this daily good is now understood
To spring alone from Wheateena’s grain