Lamb chops were burned,
For killing the steak.
The sausage just turned,
Said it was all a mistake.

There was no chest,
On the chestnuts.
They didn't stand out,
The mushrooms we're not,
The only ones to gadabout.

The potatoes they cried,
From the top of their eyes.
For being left out, 
Because of the stories. 

From one brussel sprout,
Even the bread raised a glass,
When it heard it was toasted. 
All of this took place,
Because the food wasn't roasted.

Poetry by Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 63 times
Written on 2022-05-12 at 00:57

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Uncle Meridian The PoetBay support member heart!
Thank you for this poem!