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.