My Mother Made a Meatloaf

by Jack Prelutsky

My mother made a meatloaf that provided much distress.

She tried her best to serve it but she met with no success.

Her sharpest knife was powerless to cut a single slice,

And her efforts with a cleaver failed completely to suffice.

She whacked it with a hammer, and she smacked it with a brick,

But she couldn’t faze that meatloaf; it remained without a knick.

I decided I would help her, and assailed it with a drill,

But the drill made no impression though I worked with all my skill.

We chipped at it with chisels but we didn’t make a dent;

It appeared my mother’s meatloaf was much harder than cement.

Then we set upon that meatloaf with a hatchet and an axe,

But the meatloaf stayed unblemished and withstood our fierce attacks.

We borrowed bows and arrows and we fired at close range,

But it didn’t make a difference, for that meatloaf didn’t change,

We beset it with a blowtorch, but we couldn’t find a flaw,

And we were both flabbergasted when it broke the power saw.

We hired a hippopotamus to trample it around,

But the meatloaf was so mighty that it simply stood its ground.

Now, we manufacture meatloaves, by the millions, all year long.

They are famous in construction, building houses tall and strong.