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.