Click,

Click, 

Click,

The ringing of silver utensils, 

There are spoons,

knives, 

forks, 

But of course, 

She is the spork. 

She can carry rice, 

Pickup oatmeal,

Carry things from chilli to mashed potatoes. 

She is a perfect blend of mom and dad, 

Mom a spoon,

Fat and thick, 

Dad a fork,

Thin with lengthy legs. 

She hides amongst the plethora of dorks, 

Ugly and old,

Unclean forks. 

She judges the spoons, 

Criticizes their lack of legs, 

She believes,

That they will never be,

As superior as a spork.