This is the short, sad life of Rotbert the Pumpkin,
Fated to molder, created to decay,
And, if we were honest with ourselves,
Kind of like you and I in that way.
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| Day 1 |
No one is quite sure when he was born,
But his first charge of consciousness
Is carved right into his gourd.
Are pumpkins no more than this?
 |
| Day 2 |
Rotbert did have one night of glory,
A single midnight to bask.
Whether that's worth all the rest,
Well, that's a question we all have to ask.
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| Day 13 |
Rotbert suffered the rainstorms,
All the slugs that slimed his rind,
He endured numbing frost, the cracking heat,
And the tickle of gnats somewhere in the back of his mind
 |
| Day 17 |
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| Day 21 |
As the days went by,
Each one worse than the last,
His collapsing mouth seemed to form the words,
“Just let me be smashed.”
 |
| Day 31 |
But as he softened and settled,
His innards putrid, his skin blackened,
Rotbert’s last thought of comfort
Was the seeds he'd leave behind, his pumpkin kin.
 |
| Oops. |
1 comments:
What a wonderful, but poignant diary. Poor Rotbert.
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