Shel Silverstein

Peanut-butter Sandwich

I'll sing you a poem of a silly young king Who played with the world at the end of a string, But he only loved one single thing— And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich. His scepter and his royal gowns, His regal throne and golden crowns Were brown and sticky from the mounds And drippings from each peanut-butter sandwich. His subjects all were silly fools For he had passed a royal rule That all that they could learn in school Was how to make a peanut-butter sandwich. He would not eat his sovereign steak, He scorned his soup and kingly cake, And told his courtly cook to bake An extra-sticky peanut-butter sandwich. And then one day he took a bit And started chewing with delight, But found his mouth was stuck quite tight From that last bite of peanut-butter sandwich. His brother pulled, his sister pried, The wizard pushed, his mother cried, 'My boy's committed suicide From eating his last peanut-butter sandwich!' The dentist came, and the royal doc. The royal plumber banged and knocked, But still those jaws stayed tightly locked. Oh darn that sticky peanut-butter sandwich! The carpenter, he tried with pliers, The telephone man tried with wires, The firemen, they tried with fire, But couldn't melt that peanut-butter sandwich. With ropes and pulleys, drills and coil, With steam and lubricating oil— For twenty years of tears and toil— They fought that awful peanut-butter sandwich. Then all his royal subjects came. They hooked his jaws with grapplin' chains And pulled both ways with might and main Against that stubborn peanut-butter sandwich. Each man and woman, girl and boy Put down their ploughs and pots and toys And pulled until kerack! Oh, joy— They broke right through that peanut-butter sandwich A puff of dust, a screech, a squeak— The king's jaw opened with a creak. And then in voice so faint and weak— The first words that they heard him speak Were, 'How about a peanut-butter sandwich?'

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