(Written for an end-of-summer tomato-themed dinner party. Credit goes to Henry Schiller both for the first stanza and for organizing the dinner party.)
Good luck to you and your plump face,
Great chieftain of the nightshade race!
Above them all you take your place,
Pasta, soup, or salad with egg:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my bone-y leg.
The groaning platter there you fill,
Your luscious curves like distant hills,
Your flesh will help to heal my ills
In times of need,
While on your skin the dew distills
Like crimson bead.
The knife is sharpened, quick and right,
And through you’re sliced with subtle sleight,
Your innards gleaming in the light,
A gushing spring,
And then, oh what a glorious sight,
Juicy, seedy thing!
Then, slice by slice, they slurp and eat,
Dogs chew your scraps, I take my seat,
And on we strive, our palates sweet
With ripe-red gore,
Your season come and gone, too fleet,
While you we adore.
Would anyone, fed long on lies
Of chemicals and salts and dyes
Enough to make an honest pig cry
With anguished squeal,
Look down with sneering or scornful eyes
On such a meal?
Poor devil! See him over his slop,
As sickly as a soggy mop,
His breathing labored, guts in a flop,
His skin so pale;
No feat of vigor can he top;
He’s bound to fail.
But see the rustic tomato-fed,
The happy earth has blessed her head,
With boundless energy she’ll tread
Through storm and strife,
With fruit-filled belly, one step ahead
For all her life.
To whatever powers make us your care
And see that we have food and fare:
We want no brown or lifeless ware,
No meats or doughs,
But if you’d grant our heartfelt prayers,
Give us tomatoes!