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Cherry, cherry pie. Sugar baby. Baked these pies in New York. Very bright, very red. Cherry pie time now, then. That’s how it began. After midnight at three a.m. They put these cherries on the line. The tired bakers get a blood nose. I once saw this boy with a blood nose. I once saw this boy. Only once. Left me with this edge, this salty taste in my mouth. I bit my tongue. This cherry. I was walking in the big bad black night and cherry came along. Be my cherry. Be so merry. If you marry me. I was so lonely. Somebody come and hold me. Somebody did do. He does do. Anybody will do. Anyone does. This cherry pie time at three a.m. Hot as hell. Can’t sleep then. Working so hard in America. I bake this big, red pie. I put these sliced cherries in a glass. I put the stick through one. Cherry, cherry baby. He was the only one. Who was with me. Altogether with me. This soldier with one wooden leg. We were travelling second class. We were going on hard, wooden seats. He gave me some cherries. Big dark ones. And juicy. Wild ones. This boy gives me a cherry. This cherry time. Cherries in this basket, strawberries on my plate. I have this birthmark. This goat, she gave me my bag back. She found it. My bag with the cherry. That I had my slippers on. This cherry bag I found. This cherry I ate. This cherry jam I’m cooking. This red pie I’m baking. My mother, she beat me. Made my nose run. Red lady. Cherry time.