The Spork

I glare at the white spork.
It had once been in my pork.
But now it looks at me smugly.

I glance around me,
For surely people would think me mad
For whispering to a plastic utensil.

No one took notice, and the spork smiles even more widely.
“What in the world could you possibly want?” I asked.

The spork shrugged.
I rub my eyes, not believing what I was seeing.
Could a plastic utensil shrug, I wonder.

“Drive you crazy, I guess.” It replies.

I jumped halfway to Mars.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing either,
And I was deaf!

“You can talk?!” I yelp.
People around me give me weird glances.

A flush goes up to my cheeks.
I had been tricked into insanity by a plastic utensil.

No. I’m not giving up just yet,
I thought, if the spork could talk,
Why not a fork or a spoon?

I grab the aforementioned items from my neighbors,
Earning me cries of protest,
As the fork had been snatched out
Of my buddy’s mouth,
Gooey macaroni still on it.

I shouted out an apology,
And glared at the spork with a evil grin.
The spork glares back,
Not understanding my intentions.
Triumph crosses my face.
“Spork,” said I, “Meet your new buddies.”

“What buddies?” replied he.
On cue, Mr. Fork and Mrs. Spoon
Shouted out their names.

More weird glances came my way
But caring was not what I did anymore.
The spork shouted incoherently,
And I knew I had won.

Well, now here I am,
Wrapped in a straitjacket
Down in Wren Hill Insane Asylum,
But, hey, I won!
I outwitted a spork!