I'll tell you a story about a silly young king
who played with the world like a toy on a string.
But he only loved one single thing.
And that thing was a peanut butter sandwich.
Now,
his scepter and his royal gowns,
his regal throne and his golden crowns were brown and sticky
from the mounds of drippings from each peanut butter sandwich.
His subjects all were silly fools because he
had passed a royal rule that all that they
could learn in school was how to make a peanut butter sandwich.
He would not eat his sovereign steak.
He scorned his soup and his kingly cake
and told his courtly cook to bake nothing,
nothing,
nothing but extra sticky peanut butter sandwich.
And then
one day
he took a bite
and started chewing with delight.
But found his mouth was shut
quite tight
from that last bite of peanut butter sandwich.
His brother pulled,
his sister pried,
the wizard pushed,
his mother cried,
my boy's
committed suicide from eating that last peanut butter sandwich.
The dentist came and the
royal doc,
the royal plumber banged and knocked but
still those jaws stayed tightly locked.
Oh,
darn that sticky peanut butter sandwich.
The carpenter, he tried with pliers.
The telephone
man tried with wires.
The fireman,
they tried with fire but couldn't melt that peanut butter
sandwich.
With ropes and pulleys,
drills and coil,
with steam and lubricating oil for 20 years of tears and toil,
they fought that awful peanut butter sandwich.
Then all his royal subjects came.
They hooked his jaws with grappling chains and
pulled both ways with might and main against,
against that peanut butter sandwich.
Each man and woman, girl and boy,
put down their plows and pots and toys and pulled until crack.
Oh joy,
they broke right through
the peanut
butter sandwich.
A puff of dust,
a screech,
a squeak, a roar, a scream,
a squeak, a roar, a squeak,
a roar.
The king's jaws opened with a creak
and then
in voice so faint and weak,
the first words
that they heard him speak were,
how about peanut butter sandwich?