What if a plate could complain to the cutlery?
|Smothered with sticky, slick slime, glowering gravy and grime, "Dinner's on me," screamed the plate. "This is dirty work I hate!" The fork queried, "What's your point? I do lifting in this joint." "You pick, poke, stick, stab and spear. I'm fine china. It hurts, hear?" Knife nudged the fork, "What's plate's plight? Will she complain my blade bites?" Spoon joined the clattering group. "I'm probably in hot soup." "My face is pocked, pitted, scarred. Each touch from you leaves me marred. Slices, skewers, scratches, scrapes, and scoops. This plate plans escape." "You'd leave?" asked the cutlery. Puzzled, perplexed utterly. Plate sighed, "I long to be free of you three, gunk, and debris." "Oh, we think you'll get your wish." "Really? How sweet," beamed the dish. "Mmpf," sputtered she with a snort. Soap, water, silenced retort. 24 lines|