He sails a sauce pan in the sink
a mast made from a spoon,
and maps his ocean black as ink
beneath a light bulb moon.

He is searching for the islands
that they call the ***** Plates,
with golden beach of breadcrumb sands
beyond the Gravy Straits.

Where macaroni dolphins leap
beyond French Fries Lagoon,
and sing their songs as sailors sleep
beneath a light bulb moon.

Beware the corn cob crocodiles
that lurk beneath the foam,
betraying folks with welcome smiles
within their bone strewn home.

He navigates the boiling oil
and safely through the ice,
to find a place to hide his spoil
away from other mice.

So island claimed x marks the spot
his sailing days at end,
and I at last wash up my pots
that so amused our friend.