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Split pickle, sliced pickle, crisp pickle, knife
All in the jar planning the night of their life

Paul pokes a pinky in, eyeing his snack,
But this time the gherkins decide to fight back

They jump out and land with a splash and a splurt,
Wielding the knife, but no one gets hurt

The stunned little boy retreats to the den
And the pickles go crazy, like a pig out its pen

They snort and they stomp, hollering “Boo yeah!” and “Woot!”
Till they hear the door crack, and the boom of a boot

Mommy’s home now, with burgers to fry
But she sees the jar empty, and rolls her eyes with a sigh

“Buddy boy,” she groans, “has got to my stash”
No pickles tonight - just patties and mash

The sly little veggies dash out the cat flap
Hoping not to get lost, for lack of a map

They pick up on a beat, and file along
To the neighborhood night club, swaying hips to the song

Elated and dilly, they burst through the door,
Disco ball turning, then head straight to the floor

It’s Saturday night and the fever is burning
The moves that they do have the novices yearning

These pickles are partying - they own the house
Other creatures start stirring, even a mouse

The sight of them all, an unforgettable scene,
Draws onlookers round, except one of them’s mean

It’s a bitter young man, not a fan of bland food
Chased by his mom, yelling, “Wait up, dude!”

Paul gets to them first, and he’s armed with a fork
He bares his teeth growling, and pops like a cork

Hungry and brimming with anger and spite,
Paul gobbles them up, with a crunch and a bite

But the pickles keep wiggling - the show must go on
And Paul’s tummy is bouncing - he’s up until dawn

Like a croc with a clock, from miles away,
The dancing belly's still heard, all night and all day.

The moral, my friend, is that revenge may taste sweet,
But when food comes to life, you’d better not eat.
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