This is the short, sad life of Rotbert the Pumpkin,
Fated to molder, created to decay,
And, if we were honest with ourselves,
Kind of like you and I in that way.
No one is quite sure when he was born,
But his first charge of consciousness
Is carved right into his gourd.
Are pumpkins no more than this?
Rotbert did have one night of glory,
A single midnight to bask.
Whether that's worth all the rest,
Well, that's a question we all have to ask.
Rotbert suffered the rainstorms,
All the slugs that slimed his rind,
He endured numbing frost, the cracking heat,
And the tickle of gnats somewhere in the back of his mind
As the days went by,
Each one worse than the last,
His collapsing mouth seemed to form the words,
“Just let me be smashed.”
But as he softened and settled,
His innards putrid, his skin blackened,
Rotbert’s last thought of comfort
Was the seeds he'd leave behind, his pumpkin kin.