Well, it doesn’t Have to make sense.
One morning in the kitchen all alone,
Preparing breakfast, I saw a bone.
From what I knew, it was from a thigh,
A bone on my counter was a great, big “Why?”
Maybe a witch had attacked my bread?
Made it more suitable for my dog instead.
Maybe a pirate flag had escaped?
Rested on the table and then badly scraped.
Oh, it must’ve been my friend Jack.
He ought to give his memory a really good smack:
He’d forgotten his bone here when he went!
His gait must look a bit odd and bent.
I can only imagine the look on people’s faces.
A one-legged skeleton! Goodness gracious!
I went after him and saw one rib,
Picked it up, that giant’s pen’s nib.
I reached Jack at the town’s bell tower,
He was looking up its gothic power.
Leaning on a statue of visible kindness,
Not deterred by his slight moon blindness.
I said “Jack, you forgot your parts.
Not the vitalest ones by any charts,
But I bet that you had to hippety hop,
And you felt a draft near your chop.”
Grabbing his components, he gave a laugh:
“Well isn’t that quite a bad social gaffe.
Imagine if you were allergic to bone,
An anaphylactic afghan I would’ve sewn.
Imagine if you had had some guests over,
Their faces would have resembled white clover.
The next time I could just forget my skull,
And when the dinner party is getting too dull.
Just grab me and go ‘ Oh poor Yorick.’
I’ll reply and the guests are gone quick.”
So I decided to call my neighbors,
With a side note: Leave home your sabres.