It makes a salad it does of its leaf while green
It smells of cocoa it does of its root while roasted
It pours a wine it does of its flower when fermented
It forms a sail it does of its seed which sails away
The harvest is best it is of its hoard upon the dun
When the poet plucks the plant he does while dodging cough and sniffle
And the wine is best it is when poured on April sun.