My brother-in-law is suffering from a severe case of Spaghetti PTSD. Apparently, giving his leftover spaghetti to my chickens was a major offense. So, in an attempt to soothe his wounded soul (and maybe get him to stop talking about it), I've written this poem.
Spaghetti Regret-ti
You rolled up late, all pale and slow,
Hungover bad—put on quite the show.
Too sick to move, too weak to stand,
So I fed you spaghetti, spoon in hand.
You feared your bowels might explode,
So you stayed parked in recovery mode.
When you finally emerged—hooray!
I went to fetch your bowl away…
But oh, the horror! The tragic scene!
Strands of spaghetti left—halfway between!
Yet dessert had started, cake was sliced,
And five hungry chickens had locked their sights.
Your hesitation, their delight,
They gobbled it up, no fork in sight!
You sat there mourning, full of regret,
Over pasta you hadn’t even finished yet.
I said, "Here, take some sauce, make some more!"
You shook your head, heart still sore.
But the chickens? They had no complaints—
They blessed your name with feathery thanks.
So while you sulked and wiped a tear,
I scrubbed your bowl—now eat cake, you hear!
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