An ode to you, asparagus,
A friend suggested that I write –
though Moon Dog doesn’t sell you,
Deerings Market might.
Of course you’re not as famous
as that morel mushroom guy –
which people hunt like diamonds
underneath the cool spring sky.
But this artist guy my sister knew,
living in a New York loft –
spent years of his life painting
your phallic asparagus stock.
So now your portrait’s hanging
in some rich New York penthouse –
and all who see it envy, “Oh my!”
then blush, quiet as a mouse.
But for me, the way I know you best,
and upon which all can agree
is that every time I eat you,
I’ll soon smell asparagus pee.
