The stubborn simple avocado
born of green and butterfat;
friendless, childless, plump mulatto,
what heartless tree conspired in that?
No fruit at all, the seedhead sat
upon a pile of ripe plantains
enjoying their last curving days.
(There's much to say for lacking brains
and nerves; no sane banana flays
in pain, in stomachs where it lays.)
How terrible to be a-spread:
how awkward and undignified,
to be forced down into the bread
and have your private organs pried
apart; resigned, my butter sighed
"What shall I do with my young life?"
All needed words, the lone pear said:
Who wants the strife of fork or knife?
I clutch a ripe plantain in bed
and grin, I am as good as dead!
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