Condiment Cabaret

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.