From Spoons To Belly Flops

Our family is one who loves party games,

All rush forward upon hearing their names.

The night begins once a game is chosen,

Only rule is to never stay frozen.

The favorite for all is the game of spoons,

Soon we're flying round like crazy baboons.

The first hand is dealt and all get their bearings,

Frantic eyes move forward anticipating new pairings.

The bell is rung and cards soon pass,

We all can't help but feel the sass.

Quickly the game moves in a direction,

With no one wanting to change selection.

Alas one moves to give up the goods,

Under the guise of mismatched hoods.

Someone soon gathers all that they need,

And fly to the spoons as fast as a steed.

No one wants to be left out,

All begin flopping as airborne trout.

The last spoon flies across the scene,

Dad sees a chance to grab its sheen.

With a quick hop he makes the lunge,

Collapsing the table as if were a sponge.

My brother and I were right on the point,

Of where the pressure had snapped the joint.

The flop had left us both pinned under a side,

But both being tough we took it in stride.

Upon my gesture I asked for reprieve,

Our dad obliged with a hasty belly weave.

The game had come to a sad foreclosure,

But this didn't crack our cheerful composure.

Games must all come to an end eventually,

However, these moments last; I'm glad eternally.