This cabbage,
Just an average roundness,
When turning greener then the savage forests,
Ruined my marriage at this early stage.
And now it's in a beige paper bag.
This peach,
My lover of all trinkets,
Became a gluten-tree fork,
With its ***** like a beach ball,
Came to me in a dream-like trance.
This onion,
The only window to my decomposing soul,
Unraveled its layers of tears to me in all
It's subtlety. It jumped on a subway train
Looking for fresher markets of prosperity.
Desperately, still.