Up in northern Pennsylvania
Lived a lady of some means.
Had she lived in olde tyme England,
She’d have been one of their queens.
How she loved her apple cider;
An aficionado she.
She gave depth and definition
To the word “persnickety.”
Every fall Miss Audrey Bidlack
Hosted her “Autumnal Tea”
But she always served hot cider
From her famous recipe.
When you got your invitation,
(Even if you had contrived)
It suggested to your neighbors
That you finally had “arrived.”
Ordering her special apples
From a grower far away,
She would peel and core her apples
Getting rid of all decay.
Pans of apples, picture perfect,
Audrey took to Keystone Mill.
The instructions that she gave them
Were precisely like a drill.
“Do not mix with other apples.
Do a special run for these.
Disinfect the pans you’re using;
We don’t want to spread disease.”
When the door had closed behind her,
All the workers groaned and sighed.
The instructions she had given
They politely set aside.
In the cider press they poured hers
Mixed with apples of their own
Which had worms and cores and bruises,
(Audrey’d died if she had known.)
She returned four hours later,
Took a taste, called it “just right.”
She would serve her apple cider
When the ladies came that night.
But she never knew the difference,
People loved her all the same,
Though her special apple cider
Was her only claim to fame.
When she died the ladies missed her;
Oh, what parties Audrey gave.
Every fall they place fresh flowers
In some cider on her grave.
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