The Pumpkin’s Predicament
Bulbous and orange is the Pumpkin’s lot,
And his tastes and décor thinly seasonal,
He’s born early summer as a root to a sprout,
And in fall when he’s plump picked reasonable.
But if you would ask the Pumpkin to tell of his game,
He would tell you it’s not to be pie,
For every great Pumpkin who aspires to live,
Dearly lives for the candle behind his eyes.
To be a Jack-O-Lantern then his desires rest,
To shudder and frighten and scare,
For every Pumpkin has deep in his chest,
The heart of a lion-born bear.
The predicament then as it’s come to this,
Is Pumpkins being richly delicious,
Their meat is pie filling as we’ve always known,
And their seeds salted sweet as Fall kisses.
So, the toil between the Pumpkin and we,
Is that neither our intentions aligned,
But as long as his belly fills ours with glee,
We shall carve him with teeth to unwind!