Pie

Pie in the sky. I had wondered what that meant. Pidgeon pie? Larks for their tongues? They were once considered a delicacy, you know, larks' tongues. Henry the Eighth. He liked a good pie made of birds. Larks, I think. What a lark. They would be alive and fly out when you cut it open. For the amusement of Henry's Courtiers.
Or there'd be dead ones stuffed one inside another then those inside a bigger bird, then a bigger one again and so on until you reached a swan on the outside. Poor swan. What an ignoble ending for such a noble bird. No more gliding on the lake, swanning about. No more flying through the air, neck stretching straight out in front, an eerie whirring sound emiting from the the wing feathers. No more all the little birds either, lost now from view, inside the swan like so many Jonahs. The whole ensemble to be ceremoniously carried in aloft the head of the serving man. All for the amazement, delight and relish of the hunting party of the day.