Pumpkin, oh pumpkin, ’tis your season of death.
How I weep for you during this yearly massacre. The stabbing of the knives, the innards ripped asunder…how horrifying to sit in the field and watch the approaching hay wagon loaded with “customers” looking to cut you from the field and fill your insides with a burning fire for their own sick amusement.
Oh that the torture would end for you and your kind. Oh that man would understand the depth of despair for a pumpkin when they carve a smile in your anguished face.
