Do you need a diversion from the horrors around you? A l’il fiddlin’ as Rome burns? Why, I can help with that. A light (and one hopes diverting) verse, perfectly suitable for piano accompaniment should anyone care to compose one, concerning… 

SKIPPY P.B. Double Peanut Butter P.B. Bites 

Gather round, yea, gather round my friends,

It’s time to talk about Skippy Bites (balls),

Before they vanish over that snack trend horizon,

And they do merit study, discussion, et al.

They await on the shelf for your notice,

Nestled in their blue plastic cup coffers,

O’ convenience this, o’ convenience that,

Question remains: are they worth four dollars?

Would an innocent young peanut object,

To becoming a snack ball down the line,

Or might it instead recoil, thinking,

Western Decadence, part 1,000,029.

They do have their charms, the heft is nice,

The texture is silky, insinuating,

But, sure, you might not decide to eat them,

Without circumstances extenuating.

Despite the chemicals that hold them round,

I imagine in heat they’d get into trouble,

If you left them too long in the hot sun,

You’d find a glossy peanut butter puddle.

Whatever skullduggery is involved,

Whatever process of p.b. ball bite witchcraft,

They do lend themselves splendidly,

To being artistically photographed.

Be interesting to hear opinions from those,

Far from a convenience mart or grocer,

Like that family in the Siberian Taiga,

Who did not know World War II was over.

I’m not a snob, I sure don’t want to be,

But I didn’t like ‘em, let’s not softball it,

Objectivity deserted me here,

As I’m quite the peanut butter zealot.

They were kind of like a haunted house,

But with ghosts bewildered not menacing,

Our peanut friends with their souls extracted,

Forced to artificial congregating.

They strike me as something despairing parents,

With fussy tots who only eat saltines,

Might urge upon their mulish bairns, pleading,

“please, kid, EAT, it kind of counts as protein.”

They are shaped like giant BBs,

And I suppose you could design a gun,

To shoot them out of when the mood struck you,

But would it be worth it? Would it be fun?

I’d like to invent a new recipe,

To imprison them into a cream pie,

Mostly because balls are hilarious

And—you agree?—so pleasing to the eye.

This is not a Room With A View reference.

How long before our Skippy P.B. Bites,

Disappear like dodos, gone completely,

I’m giving them two years, maybe three,

Which matches their shelf life quite neatly.