By Martina Preston
If, perhaps, a group of fellows
All woke up as stale marshmallows,
Do you think they’d try, like men,
To find the fellows they’d once been?
Or would they grow accustomed to
This new and boring life of goo,
And in their minds resolve themselves
To long, bleak lives upon the shelves?
They might, in fear, submissive lie
Wondering who’s next to die?
Lack of limbs lends no solutions
But one: a mellow revolution.
The trouble is, our fellows see,
That only periodically—
On the coldest days or warmest nights—
Do they emerge from out of sight
To swim in chocolate swirls warm
Or roast and slowly lose their form.
Despite this fact, their spirit’s not lost,
And though the treat is cheap in cost,
In wit and words, they seem to be
Still as advanced as you and me.
Society can rise once more
In these poor fellows’ state; I’m sure.
For with their minds, they can bestow
A governmental type of show
On workings of a candy’s kind
To exercise their human minds.
The weeks go by, and months, and years
And some marsh-fellows cry sweet tears
Remembering their human past,
But bravely, still, a few hold fast.
A culture is reborn through those
Who dares to speak out from the rows
Of fluffy ‘mallows. Once were men
(Their minds were as they’d always been).
So, soon, a city will be built
From crumbs and trash the humans spilled–
Jobs and trading regulated
Entertainment duly rated.
Government elections held,
And sugary pollution smelled.
And life goes on as once before,
As fellow-ship is here reborn.