The bludgeon shive’s on when at Chippendales we dined
Of the big spork they called Kitschy-Spooney
The spork it is said, is a kismet of dread
When it tries to dismember or hew me

If your mode of spearin’s poor, plenty pricks causin’ thumbs sore
More than bread stands imperilled: splayd-tempting
‘Cus one slip could sure cause a bone could be skewered
An assail of no member’s unsurely (1)

Adept with the tine may save a very-grim dine
When no lack of blood spillin’ ‘tis causin’
It’s a big plater’s woe: more than sticker of toast
Can accrue un-food stabbings well lesioned

Imbued with some firm and unsupple surreal spurs
With a haft fully loaded for cleave-land
A waiter unsprite with a slip - full prong
And you’ll be a mort skinned and be squealin’

Don’t wend if you’re riled or a triple-bottle bound:
Drunken weave; spork can be impaling
Can sever-y ran through, this contraption bids goo
With a glitch it do render skin peelin’

To prong’s its fate ‘cus it’s forkness don’t abate
If you flail it can render for slashin’
This bastard-spoon plain’s a deceiving bane
Be the choice: polyurethane questioned

A bellicose aim’s all it took to dissect
Raisin’ sorrows it sure nuff can bleed ya
A shiv is its kin, a maim brunchbane it’s been
The blood-jellos (or puddings) ‘ll show ya

It’s capping-spired in three or quarter they been
And a food slip cause wounding unsteriled
And late at dessert ‘cus this schwert is not inert
Came the shreddin’ of digits imperilled

Does anyone know who this supper-prod chose
With its crafty diminutive powers?
When silver’s away splayds they may blightish play
As if got knife-ti-er wiles assigned ‘er

Designed to spit clumps or designed to soup seize
Woe if spork leap and brook slaughter
‘Cus all that untames if complacent with its aims
For then knive-ish not spoon-ish it’s wroughter

Make war on rolls, sup-spearier things
When the foons have no slice-thwarter sanctions
Bold runcible reams; pricks a tongue; one screams
The guile-ing arrays awful mort lend

So mothers be so tablewar(e)y-o
Speak up that fork-queery can blunder
As the implements go stubby polymer’s no-no
Let utensils of woe-plunder be sundered

An untrusty old tool is a fork hy-brid
And its merry impaler’s wrath be droll
The lunch bell chime billeted unbenign tines
‘Clare a ban on this plastic blitz-terror!

Please pledge to laugh on what this cutlery did spawn
Now the Big Spork must bow its adieu-y
A parody it’s said is a gift to be read
May this tale of spork-wender allure thee!



(1) Don’t you love double-negatives?