Gravy, gravy everywhere
and not a drop to drink.
It pools between the mashed potatoes
of our egos and the tablecloth
waves like a white flag.
Biscuits crumble under pressure
and surrender to the weapons of mass digestion.
Gravy, gravy everywhere
and someone stirs the pot.
No one leaves hungry,
but the wooden spoon becomes a gavel
as the cranberry sauce starts to sweat.
By pie time, no survivors.
INSTANT NOODLES 