Page 38 - Poetry-Whimsy

Ode to the Cucumber

Cool, crispy, verdant, luscious fruit,
Though scourged with wittling’s stripes,
For love thou needst not press they suit,
Thou holdest us with gripes.

What time thou’rt in the market place,
A dozen for a nickel,
Forbidden fruit with tempting face,
To get us in a pickle.

Or lying near the garden path,
Some simple lad in frolic
Purloin thee, bringing down the wrath
Of conscience and of colic.

Or sliced in vinegar in haste,
Thou makest all food sweeter,
Thus doubling up the joys of taste,
And doubling up the eater.

Child of the dew, from Asia’s clime,
Dyspeptics may deride us,
We’ll not expose thee in our rhyme,
Thy wrongs are all inside us.

Well may revenge heal all thy smarts—
A vengeance gastronomic;
Thine, unlike crimes that weigh the heart,
Lies heavy on the stomach.

And shall we rear this fruit again,
And of it be partaker?
We taste, and answer in our pain:
“Yes, we’ve put in an acher.”

—(Phrenological Journal, 1884)

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