A plethora of perky pumpkins,
All lined up in their patch,
Waiting for Dr. Lantern
To pick out his latest catch.

He plucks one from their number,
The biggest of them all,
And rolls it to his front porch
Like an oversized orange ball.

Out come the surgical instruments,
The cutlery of his trade;
He cuts into the cranium
With the biggest, sharpest blade.

He hacks a circular incision
And then removes the top,
Scoops out the seeds and slimy pulp,
Depositing them with a “PLOP.”

And then, cosmetic surgery -
He works at a careful pace,
Then stands back to admire his work,
A geometrical face.

Finally, he places a candle
Inside the hollow form,
A flickering ghostly spirit
To keep the dead skull warm.

The squashectomy was gruesome,
The innards were a mess,
Yet, to Dr. Jack O. Lantern,
The operation’s a success.

But the remaining pumpkins aren’t perky,
In fact they’re sorely vexed,
As the doctor stands in the pumpkin patch,
Calling out, “All right, who’s next?”



[Written Oct. 2000 in response to a Pathetic "Poetry Challenge" from Cassie Blake.]

10/09/2001

Posted on 10/09/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt