Never Trust Bowls in the Backpack

Listen ye here, I shall tell you a story,
the saddest of stories to tell!
Yea sadder than Poe, or his stories of woe,
sadder than bright Israfel!

For I on my way to my work yesterday thought that,
food I should eat 'ere I came.
So I took up my pack and I went out the back,
but I should have stayed home 'ere my shame

And I paid for the food and I drank and I chewed,
but I had not the time to eat all.
The chilli was left, I would not be bereft,
so I saved it e'en though it was small.

Ah, but hear ye good fellows, the woe of this tale,
of my folly and utter inept:
I closed up the bowl and set it down whole
in my pack where my good things are kept

And off then I went, where to work I'd been sent,
and I picked up my backpack to go.
As I hustled and bustled that bowl must have rustled,
for 'twas open! Disgustingly so!

It spread out like fire: destructive with ire,
it soaked in the cotton like blood!
It seeped into paper like peace to a Quaker,
but awful as old Noah's flood!

And I wept it, I wept it, but could not accept it
that lost was my pack evermore.
Thus I urge ye my friends, that no matter what ends:
never trust ye your bowls to stay sure!