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The
pomegranate is a fruit,
Potatoes are a tuber root,
The turnip is a vegetable,
But it would make a lousy soup.
And
brussel sprouts are things of scorn,
I've hated them since I was born,
And spinach turns into a mush,
And leaves me feeling so forlorn.
The only
thing I like is corn,
Both bowls and plates it does adorn,
It's beauty shows when butter melts,
And when I eat, I feel reborn.
I love
the sweetness of the cob,
The butter drips; I'm such a slob,
My hands are greasy; that's okay,
I really love this messy job.
As
niblets or as corn now creamed,
As canned or fresh, they're both a dream,
I paint a picture in my mind,
Of waterfalls of corn, supreme.
If that
were all there was to eat,
I think it would be quite complete,
And though I have both meat and bread,
A plate of corn is hard to beat.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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