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The vegetable defamation trial

It was a severe case of vegetable defamation, the makin’s of a landmark case of harassment and abuse.

The plaintiff, a Miss Parsley was demanding compensation of one Paul Pierre Potato and, to-be-specified produce.

“So how do you plead, Mr. Tater?” “Not guilty but let me relate



I’m a victim of mass inflammation, au gratined and smeared on a plate,

laid next to a lecherous cutlet whose gravy kept touching my cheese.



It was all I could do to keep silent. Then I felt the promiscuous peas.

Nudging their firm little bodies, assuming themselves in my space,

It was clear they had eyes for the cutlet and longed for his gravy embrace.

And there I lay lumpy and fighting my pain, ignored as the fork stirred their lust.

The shame that I felt in their amorous twine sorely tempted, but cry out I must,

‘Decorum’, I prompted, ‘Remember you’re food! Presentation is half of the meal!

Take pride in your placement and dress up your ranks, we’re the chef’s culinary ideal.

A painting in fiber, a sculpture in glaze, a feast for a gourmet’s eye view!

You’re acting like leftovers, reheated lumps. The diners will think that we’re stew.’

Alas, twas no use, they continued to mix till we looked like a discarded cud.

Bereft of all pride, depraved by the scene, I peered up out of the mud.

And there on the edge, immune to the drama in which I was hopelessly scrounged,

A vision of verdant vegetaciousness … Miss Parsley, provocative, lounged.”

“At last,” said the judge, “you have got to the point.” “Your honor, I meant no offense.

My ardor, my shame, my hope gave me voice and I lost all track of good sense.

I lay in the wallow of half eaten peas, a gristle and gravy abyss,

So I asked, ‘Why’s a cute little sprig like yourself ensconced on a platter like this?’ “

“Is that all?” asked the judge, “That was intentional, Potato replied in retort,

“The plate was slick, I started congealing, I grabbed at her frond for support.

I got cheese on her ramus. She drew back aghast, ‘Don’t think I’ve not heard of your couch!

You dirty old tuber, when I’m through with you, you’ll wish you were powdered, I’ll vouch.’

It only got worse. Said I looked like a chip. Some fast food turned up by a plow.’

A chip!’ I decried. ‘A step below fried!’ She said, ‘I’m referring to cow!

‘It was all I could take, ‘You incipient fern, you nourishment of last resort!

It’s no wonder nobody eats parsley.’ She said, ‘Greaseball, I’ll see you in court.’

Vegetable harassment was the charge the judge adjudicated on.

The retribution swift and a sentence some might think unduly rash

for Potato was convicted and was corned beef hash by dawn

and Miss Parsley was, as usual, just scraped into the trash.


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Baxter Black