Bone in the kitchen

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.

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