With a shriek that could shatter the air,
Indescribably vast, the éclair
Levels buildings with ease.
Oh, the smashing of trees
And the wailing of souls in despair!

Was it science gone rogue or gone mad
That created a pastry so bad?
Though the scent is divine
And the glaze extra fine,
The destruction it wreaks is too sad.

Is the city forsaken and lost?
Are we paying the ultimate cost
Of consumer demand
For the huge and the grand?
Or perhaps if we only had flossed...

Either way, it's our custardy doom,
Full of sugar and mayhem and gloom.
I had thought I would die
At the teeth of a pie,
But it— Wait. There's a whoosh! There's a zoom!

Look above! It's a bird! It's a plane!
No, it's not! It's a guy! That's insane!
It's a hero in tights
All ashimmer with lights
And his lip simply curled with disdain!

"Are you kidding? A [i]doughnut[/i]?" he cries.
"I refuse! They go straight to my thighs!
Now, a savory treat,
I could possibly eat,
But a doughnut? I won't!" Off he flies.

[hr]

So the rampant destruction goes on
As we cower all night till the dawn
Brings a sight we had spurned:
It's the hero returned!
The reaction? A groan and a yawn.

"Not again!" comes a shout from below.
"You're a jerk and a finicky schmoe!
Unprofessional slob!
You can find a new job!
Go away! Take a powder and blow!"

"You'll forgive me," the hero replies
With a guttering flame in his eyes,
"If I don't have a taste
For this glutinous paste!
I prefer something meaty with fries!

"But I bid you, my friends, to fear not!
I have sworn I shall never be caught
Unaware anymore!
I shall give it what for
And will trounce it! Behold what I've brought!"

He unlimbers the edge of his cape
And exposes a conical shape.
As we strain, blinking up,
Someone shouts, "It's a cup!"
Which it is. We all stand there and gape.

"That's correct!" And with fingers upraised,
He explains it, completely unfazed:
"For with coffee in hand,
I can lick any band,
Be it cruller or sprinkled or glazed!"

[hr]

In the carnage that follows, the rules
Of decorum are slaughtered like fools.
Every street is awash
In a flood of ganache,
And the custard is standing in pools.

Through the strewn-about boulders of cake,
People stagger and wish it were fake.
Did the hero survive?
Could he still be alive?
Will his victory bash be a wake?

I can hear someone sniffle nearby;
Then again, and they raise up the cry:
"Is that coffee I smell?
Over here! What the Hell?"
And I see him. I cannot deny.

He's expanded, so nearly a sphere,
When I rush to his side, it's unclear
If he's breathing.  "Hello?
Are you living or no?"
But he belches: "I am, though I fear

"It'll take me some time to digest
What I found of its brain and the rest
Of its ganglion bits."
With a wobble, he sits.
"So remaining in place might be best."

We construct him a hut out of pine,
And for weeks, people wait in a line
To say thanks for his deeds
And to see to his needs.
But he grins: "Just a sandwich is fine."