It’s technically spring, and my favourite month of the year, but winter won’t let go of its almost-last grip. The whole family enjoyed a lakeside holiday last week, in a friendlier climate. I got to listen for as long as I wanted to my favourite sound in the whole world: soft waves lapping on a beach. A poem will emerge from this experience, no doubt. Perhaps when spring pushes back in on a warm front.
But for now, some silliness. When I was small my mother used to sing a ditty to the tune of “On Top of Old Smoky” but with the words changed to “On Top of Spaghetti.” Where this came from I don’t know: I have not tried to find out. She thought she was being funny, no doubt, but every time I heard it this song made me cry! Because I felt sorry for the poor meatball.
On top of spaghetti, all covered in cheese
I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed.
It rolled off the table, and onto the floor
And then my poor meatball
Rolled right out the door.
It rolled into the garden
And under the bush
Am then my poor meatball
Was nothing but mush.
Isn’t that tragic? Who comes up with such things? Even worse, my family found it hilarious that this song upset me and sang it over and over. Decades later, here it is, imprinted on my brain, inescapable.
A few months ago, my daughters and I were walking in the summer sunshine. I told them the story of the meatball song then sang it for them. They agreed it was sad (though they didn’t cry) and then in my head I started to compose an alternate ending for the meatball. As we walked home, I sang it for my youngest and by the time we went through the front door she had learned it. I was quite pleased with myself.
I didn't think about the meatball all winter. But today, somehow the subject came up and I was describing my childhood tears to a student. Then - a double tragedy! - I realized I had forgotten my alternate ending, and I never wrote it out. So I sat down and immediately composed another version, similar if not the same, and maybe even better. Here it is, to redeem lost meatballs and remind us of the promise of spring.
On top of spaghetti, all covered in cheese
I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed.
It rolled off the table, and onto the floor
And then my poor meatball, rolled right out the door.
It rolled to the garden, and into the dirt
Then sheltered by daisies, it joined the earth.
Watered by raindrops, it pushed up a shoot
Down into the darkness, it sent a strong root.
In the sunlight of springtime, now what do I see?
My little lost meatball,
Is a tall meatball tree.
(c) April 2026 Síochána Arandomhan
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