The Lonely Meatball

One meatball sits upon my plate,

a lonely, little guy.

His meatball friends have gone away;

I’ll bet he knows not why.

The noodle hill was washed right down

by my huge glass of milk.

The sauce was sure the deepest red,

so rich — and smooth as silk.

This meatball is the lucky one;

he doesn’t have to die;

cause if I eat this meatball now,

I won’t have room for pie.

8 thoughts on “The Lonely Meatball

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