There's a green twig in my soup!

With six crimson leaves to boot.

So I stirred and I stirred, to no avail,
whilst poets would send me mail.

I swear that I have no recipe,

For the oddest reason gets the best of me.

So I blew and I blew until it was cool,
For folly is the way to make happy this fool.

As history is no friend of mine,

All my soup needed was a touch of lime.