Who's Talking? Just Listen!



This new computer is still giving me grief, but it has one program that is really great.  It’s called Mail Chimp and wheneever I post a new column it let’s me  write a single email to all my readers, then set a date and time for mailing it.  So here I am in California playing tennis with my three daughters, and you’re getting this column. 

It’s just a poem I probably composed thirty years ago, but vegetables don’t change much.  Enjoy.  Hopefully when I get back home I’ll be able to write a column about the fabulous gardens we saw in California.

The vegetables were arguing

Which one of them was best,

Which had the most achievements,

Which was the tastiest.

The beautiful asparagus

Spoke up the first pf all –

“I maybe past my prime, my dears,

But no one grows so tall.”

“Aw, Shucks,” the corn grinned down at her,

“I guess I shouldn’t boast,

But my old stalk can stretch beyond

The highest garden post.”

A ripe tomato shyly spoke,

“I’m fancy and high-bred,

I love the heat, it makes me sweet.”

She blushed a rosy red.

The Swiss chard leaves began to curl

And yodel at the sky.

“Our stems get cut right at the butt,

Yet still we multiply.”

“We’re very fresh and tender, too,”

 the baby onions cried.

“I think you’re fresh and impudent,”

Miss Broccoli replied.

“Such bickering!” Aunt Lettuce sniffed. 

“I think my head will split.

We’ll never figure out who’s best

Til we calm down a bit.”

The mealy-mouthed potato moaned,

“I’ve got the scabs this year. 

I’ve had no starch since early March.”

She shed a milky tear.

“Oh wipe your eyes,” an old beet said,

“At least you’re not too plump.

If I continue gaining weight

They’ll throw me on the dump.”

The cucumber let out a burp,

“My indigestion’s bad.

I guess it must have been that dose

Of garden lime I had.”

“Pipe down!” the red hot radish yelled,

“Pipe down, you silly clods!”

And each young pea laughed out with glee

And nearly split their pods.

  

The carrot plants got all choked up.

It really was absurd.

Their heads were buried in the dirt

So none of them were heard.

Poor Mr. Celery tried to speak,

His skin a sickly white.

His voice was just a whisper ‘cause

His collar was too tight.

Then Grandpa Cauliflower coughed

And shook his snow white head.

“I think we’ve bickered long enough,

Let’s get to work,” he said.

The vegetables all dug right in,

Their argument forgot.

And each long row began to grow

To fill the garden plot.