I'm not very picky, unless faced with:
      Icky, sticky, pumpkin!

                Oh! How I glower!
                When faced with that sour,
                  Slimy, stringy, slush!

                          So I groan,
                                And I moan,
                                      Then I run.

  My arms flailing!
       My feet, slap, slap, slapping,
                          The cold, hard, floor.

                                         'Till a hand grasps my shoulder,
                                            And I'm dragged to the table..

                          Then, I'm pushed into a chair,
                                   And a spoons pushed into my hand,
                                      And that foul mush, is pushed into the spoon.

               That is forced down, down, down,
                        My gagging, unwilling, throat.

When something is lost,
The importance of it is found,
Everyone gives such a fuss,
Until it is safe and sound.