On the back of my box of spaghetti
Was a note, really small, in black type.
“This one pound should feed four to six people.
Keep their tummys all full for the night.”

So, what was this caloric nonsense?
I decided it would be my job
To find out if the numbers were true ones,
And if so, was I one big fat slob?

For you see, no four to six meals
Did I eat from a mere one pound box
Rather, just one stringy snack
With one noodle left over (to floss).

As I wound the last noodle round my finger
Preparing to scrape up the food
In between all my teeth and my gums
I decided that math was the tool.

Yes, math would reveal all the secrets
The hidden disguise in the box.
It would tell me if they spoke the truth,
Or if they were just talking the talk.

If one pound fed four to six people,
Then on two pounds, a dozen would feast.
With four, twenty-plus happy diners
Would be pouring their sauce on their yeast.

That’s gramma and grandpa and grandson,
Granddaughter and children (the two),
Their nephews and cousins and aunties,
And the uncle from Kalamazoo.

And don’t forget mother and father,
Who partake from the plate with delight
As they split their spaghetti with Charlie
And his wife, what’s-her-name (not-too-bright).

And they have invited The Beatles,
So we add now a fabulous four.
(Well, three if you don’t count the dead one,
But four if you go to before).

Yes, all those and more could all feast
On four boxes of heavenly pasta.
No side dishes needed, no meat.
Just a little smashed tomato salsa.

For me, it would just see me through
A Monday, A Tuesday. No more.
And that’s assuming that I skipped breakfast.
‘Cuz I was running late out the door.

So I guess that means I am an oinkster.
A piggy, a porky, a sow.
But a tip for all you smart investors:
Buy up some pasta stock. Now.

© 2000, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com