This is a remake of a poem I wrote in 8th or 9th grade, but don't have a copy of anymore, but can remember the gist of.
Once there was a guy named Bob
And this guy, he had a job.
He made pizzas, small and large,
And shipped them internationally on a barge.
He made them loud, he made them proud, he made them all day long.
But said I that 'twere to last, I gravely would be wrong.
The family business, counterfeiting, pulled deeply at Bob's heartstrings,
And though he tried to earn clean cash, out called crime's offerings.
"Why work, poor sap? Why slave away?" the urges would implore him.
"To see that crime does pay post haste, it does not take a forum."
Too late, too late, his self-control tries futile to deter.
By now there is no chance it will be called in to confer.
His mind made up, at least most way, his future, it is set.
The pizza place will stand no more, for avarice has met.
"Alas," cried Bob, "My future lies not in cheap pepperoni,
but in the hon'rable business of making cash that's phony."
And so Bob left to counterfeit, but not before the foll'wing:
He kicked the stove, with a mighty kick, and the metal let out a ring.
But deep inside the pizza ov'n, what Bob had not remembered
A slab of dough, nine days old, set proud above the embers.
What Bob had not been counting on (and honestly, who could?)
Was that dough, week-old and more, should start to learn real good.
In some strange way, which no mere man could hope to have explained,
That dough, left in the fiery pit, some sentience had gained.
"Rar!" it said, "And rar again! And rar some more and more!"
And with that short, sweet eloquence, it wiggled out the door.
Down to the floor of the pizza shop the dough did up and land.
It flattened out, but then snapped back, just like a rubber band.
Slith'ring down linoleum, out behind the counter,
Under tables, chairs, and bins in which rubbish was flaunted.
Finally it reached the door, no obstacle to it.
It said, "I shall just eat this door," and that is what it did.
Now fin'lly free from the dingy 'straunt, the dough ball was quite glib.
"That door was good; I must eat more. On life, I call first dibs."
Zut alors! How could it be that just across the street
A warehouse store, chock full of doors of every shape, size, creed.
"The jackpot!" it cried out aloud, and wasted no more time
In crawling right into the store, with its color scheme of lime.
Doors? No more. No entranceways survived the reign of terror.
The salesmen knew that this could not pass for a bookkeeping error.
It stopped not there, it spread out far, to all the doors in town.
"That draft I feel, is it just me?" a phrase now widely known.
But doors were not enough for it, its appetite not quenched.
"Perhaps I shall go over here and eat this wooden bench."
It found, to all our great dismay, that benches served quite well
As replacements for the taste of doors -- the ones which all had fell.
"I wonder now," the doughball said, "if taste is quite so picky,
Or if I could eat anything and never find it icky?"
To test its theory, whether it could eat whate'er it pleased,
It ate a stuffy business man, just flown in from the east.
He went down well, and tasted, truth, like doors and benches too.
"It seems to me that everything is yummy, even shoes.
And so I shall eat everything, I never shall retreat;
Consuming all the world and more shall be a tasty treat."
It ate a wrench, a finch, a mensch, the contents of the zoo,
A perch, and Lurch, and Colin Firth, and all the rusty spoons.
Trees and buildings, all inside the belly of that food.
"How could this happen, seriously?" asked one incredulous dude
Before he too was gobbled up; the doughball said "Quite good."
And so, at last, my story ends, but not at my suggestion.
You see, I am that very dude, and now am in digestion
