SALAD

Methinks this salad

In this fridge;

Has died a natural death;

And now has earned the privilege

Of, at least, a timely rest.

Lettuce with heart;

Roll forth and peel.

Who tolls the bell?

And sends the remnants

Of this drastic meal;

To serve a purpose hence.

To trough; Where fate is sealed;

And opportunity regurgitates;

To produce a tender veal!

Oct. 24th. 1991 © Will George.

Will George Poet

will-george-poet.co.uk