round and plump and ripe,
sweet and red and bright.
No one takes a bite.
They hang there day and night.

The worms they drill their holes.
Inside a fungus grows.
They even chew the leaves.
Once pretty now diseased.

The sky is weeping snow.
The apples fall and roll.
Under the tree they froze.
Blanketed in white they doze.

No juice, cider or pie.
No ****, dumplings or crisps.
No man, woman or child
to smile and lick their lips.