Please don’t kill us, Phyllis;
Pickle dill us in some brine,
Please don’t tip and spill us
When on sandwiches you dine
You find us cucumbersome,
We’re happy on divine.
You decant your barrel drums
Into your Frankensteins.
Down in your root cellar
There are jars of fruits in wine,
A gypsy fortune teller
And a box of turkey spines-
We would miss these summer rains
And this sun that shines,
So we beg you please refrain
And heed our tiny whines:
Please don’t kill us, Phyllis,
Though we’re fat and sweet and fine,
Whatchu talkin’ ’bout Willis?
We’re downhill yet disinclined.

9/21/13