Laying in a field of dirt
you’re growing bigger in rapid spurts,
a weird ball shape and colored bold
we all know you ain’t getting old.

Harvest time will come along
and so many people can’t be wrong,
they pick you and have a debate
about which one’s got the highest weight.

Then someone takes a knife so sharp
and sets you on a plastic tarp,
the cut is deep and while it’s fresh
they’re scraping out your inner flesh

Mushy, orange and filled with seed
I’m just surprised that you don’t bleed.
With curiosity I watch and follow
their work until you’re just plain hollow.

Another contest soon begins:
who can carve the biggest grin -
a scary face with glooming eyes,
the winner gets a nice surprise

Now it’s time to bake your inner
for pumpkin pie just after dinner,
they stand in line, they can not wait
and pile whip cream on to their plate.

I don’t understand the reason why
they have to turn you into a pie,
you ain’t sweet, you can’t deny
sugar and spice one has to apply.

I tried real hard with much ambition
to like you as you are tradition,
but to me your taste is debatable
after all; you are just a vegetable.