October’s bellowing anger breaks and cleaves the bronzed battalions of the stricken wood in whose lament I hear a voice that grieves for battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown along the westering furnace flaring red. O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, the burden of your wrongs is on my head.
The world full of gladness, there are joys of many kinds, there’s a cure for every sadness, that each troubled mortal finds.
And my little cares grow lighter and I cease to fret and sigh, and my eyes with joy grow brighter when she makes lemon pie.
When the bronze is on the filling, that’s one mass of shining gold, and its molten joy is spilling on the plate, my heart grows bold and the kids and I in chorus raise one glad exultant cry and we cheer the treat before us which is mother’s lemon pie.
Then the little troubles vanish, and the sorrows disappear, then we find the grit to banish all the cares that hovered near, and we smack our lips in pleasure o’er a joy no coin can buy, and we down the golden treasure which is known as lemon pie.