On top of spaghetti

All planted with trees

I lost my poor meatball

When somebody sneezed.

It rolled on the table

And fell through the cracks

And landed beneath us

In five tons of flax.

The first ton said, “Kill it!

It came from a chao.”

The second ton nodded

But asked the rest how.

The fifth ton responded,

“Let’s drown it in cheese!”

But the third and fourth tons

Said, “Wait your turn please.”

The fifth ton was angered

And crowned itself third

It rattled the coleslaw

To make itself heard.

It wove itself deftly

Into a corset

And asked of my meatball,

“How small can you get?”

My meatball was clever

And lay on its side.

Its prostrate dimensions

Were equally wide.

The fifth ton beheld it

And quivered with fear.

It knew it was pointless

To corset a sphere.

So now my poor meatball

Is king of the flax.

We must pay its daily

Spaghetti sauce tax.

So if you eat spaghetti

All planted with trees,

First flatten your meatballs

Or drown them in cheese.