All day they cooked, the baker-ponies in their field-ovens,
But the hooves gripping their ladles were covered in batter
And the hollow pits of the eye stared, vacant and starved,
Where luna's moonlight shone.

The hair-nets lay like blots on their thin manes,
The toque blanche splattered with powdered sugar and spice,
But they mixed the batter in the nests beneath the hill
As they had of old.

And the ovens glowed, and the mixing-machines, but there was no sound,

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