I didn’t say so, but you still should know
To leave it as smooth as could be
To drag the knife with a most even flow
And not kill my jar of Skippy
As if the knife’s fate was a crime of passion
A scorned love of food loved by me

You were my guest, I would never have guessed
This is how you ate your PB
Before going on bread your spread must be dead
My poor fresh jar of Skippy
Your thrashing lay waste to my sweet legume paste
And that’s a concern to me

Where did you learn this—from Guantanamo
To spread like a stinging bee?
This wasn’t store brand, Peter Pan, or JIF
This was premium creamy Skippy
My peanut butter did nothing to you
So how could you do this to me?
You maim like a voyager bankrolled by Spain
You crazy son of a B

Don’t give me no ‘tude or call me strait-laced
Because I like a clean PB
You’re like Rob Ford with my butter—blow after blow
Another deep cut reference from me
But still no deeper than the cuts that you made
Hacking and whacking my poor Skippy

But one spread was not enough for your bread
The cap grooves hold a brown-ish debris
Sniff—taste—it’s Nutella debris
You used the same knife—choco-hazulnut bled
Into my brand-new jar of PB
And I can never dissever this gunk from that gunk
You have ruined my perfect Skippy

You’re a snack time beast, I’ve always liked you the least
Even before you used my Skippy
“Oh, are you mad, bruh?” Hm, let me think— duh!
You psychopath unsmoothed my Skippy
So when later today I make PB & J
And I see—yes I’ll see—your peanut paste foul play
Disappointed, you bet I will be
You ruined p. butter for me