Go left at the fork.
Go right at the spoon.
Go under the knife
And jump over the moon.
The banana split
During its salad days.
It was easy as pie
To cake walk away.
He’s such a dish.
She’s gone to pot.
They’re in a stew
That’s boiling hot.
His goose is cook.
Her mind is fried.
Don’t butter them up,
They’re raw inside.
If you egg her on
The yoke’s on you.
She’s no apple of your eye
By the time she’s through.
The tables will be turned.
The empty will satiate
As you’re rounding third
And trying to steal home plate.
Life is a pickle,
This you can’t deny.
It’s the pot or frying pan
No mater how hard you try.
You can stir up a frenzy.
You can sift through the rubble.
The ingredients are there
To pickle all your troubles.
When things are ajar
And you feel in a jam
Just remember life will gel
If you don’t act the ham.
Go left at the fork.
Go right at the spoon.
Go under the knife.
Do your dishes soon.
–David E. Booker
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