My mother made a meat loaf
but I think she made it wrong.
It could be that she cooked it
just a little bit too long.

She pulled it from the oven;
and we all began to choke.
The meatloaf was on fire
and the kitchen filled with smoke.

The smoke detectors squealed
at all the flaming meatloaf haze.
My father used his drink
to try extinguishing the blaze.

Mom shrieked and dropped the meat loaf;
it exploded with a boom,
and splattered blackened globs on
every surface in the room.

The dog passed out. The kitten hid.
My brother screamed and fled.
The baby ate a piece of meat loaf
sticking to her head.

My father started yelling
and my sister went berserk.
But I kept cool and said, "at least
our smoke detectors work."

--Linda Knaus and Kenn Nesbitt

This poem appears in the book
My Hippo Has the Hiccups