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.