Some prefer carrots while others like cabbage.
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Song of the Little White Girl
Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, what is the matter?
Why are you shaking so? Why do you chatter?
Because it is just a white baby you see,
And it's the black ones you like, cabbage tree?
Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, you're a strange fellow
With your green hair and your legs browny-yellow.
Wouldn't you like to have curls, dear, like me?
What! No one to make them? O poor cabbage tree!
Never mind, cabbage tree, when I am taller,
And if you grow, please, a little bit smaller,
I shall be able by that time, bay be,
To make you the loveliest curls, cabbage tree.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Talking Cabbage
A talking cabbage told me, it would prefer to be in a side salad
Than watch the news
The couch potato listless of endless media coverage
Said it would rather be mashed and squashed
Than bored by another soap
Then it changed it's mind
And said it would prefer to mingle with mayonaise and chives
The talking cabbage said it would rather be coleslaw
Than know the weather
At least it could mingle with the onion and the carrot together
The talking cabbage said
' I would rather have my own chat show than watch Jerermy Kyle'
And then thinking it was all a dream
I showed him the chopping board
SILENCE
Then the cucumber started
I decided to become A NON VEGETARIAN
But something is telling me the lamb chops are restless
The eggs are becoming quite unreasonable
Over the spilt milk
And the bread is unhappy with it's filling
Happiness never lasts!
Decided to fast
But the silence is unbearable,
Who can fill it?
So I turned on the news.......! ! ..
yvette smith
poem by Yvette Smith
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Everything I do, I do on the principle of Russian borscht. You can throw everything into it-beets, carrots, cabbage, onions, everything you want. What's important is the result, the taste of the borscht.
quote by Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Leaf
The Leaf.
On my walks I picked up a perfectly formed elm leaf,
the colour of dry tobacco. In Norway, during the Nazi
occupation, people had tobacco plants in back yards.
Perhaps carrots and cabbage had been healthier.
Put the leaf on top of a white wall and took a picture.
The wind came and blew it away. I brief meeting of
equals and a memory
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Slug City
There once was a family of slugs
That lived in a cabbage patch town
They went out every nite to eat
Found a cabbage and began to munch down
All through the night they could reduce
A cabbage to a stalk in the ground
All night they would munch and munch
But you would never here them, not nary a sound
But Mrs H was becoming fed up
Her patch the proudest around
With malace, blood red, she schemed
She vowed to eliminate those clowns
She purchased the best poison they had
She tried every trick she read
But the slugs just kept on coming
Every nite long after it was bed
Then a local wino he said
Out of the garden he could take
These inconsiderate gluttonous
Stylommatophora pulmonates
So he began by opening a beer
Placing some into a sphere
Putting them by each cabbage head
he said, 'This will make these slugs disappear.'
But by morning the cabbage was gone
Worse yet so was the beer
And if you looked even more closely
Tiny signs saying, 'Next time make it import you here.'
poem by Midnights Voice
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You Better Spice This With Brown Sugar
Last night...
I whipped up something,
To quench my appetite.
I diced onions and green peppers.
With tomatoes,
Broccoli and carrots too!
Knowing this would be liked.
I added red cabbage, potatos...
Dashed with salt and red pepper.
And other ingredients like curry...
To stimulate the brew.
'Something' said,
'You better spice this with brown sugar.'
So this I did do.
Then I next heated a frying pan.
From slow to medium.
But not hot!
With vegetable oil, butter and a bit of soy.
And all of it simmered in an aromatic splender.
And I ate it.
EVERY drop.
It was great!
And,
I must admit this...
I did lick the plate.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Possibilities
I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.
poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Windsor Prophecy
When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,
With a saint at his chin and a seal at his fob,
Shall not see one New-Years-day in that year,
Then let old England make good cheer:
Windsor and Bristol then shall be
Joined together in the Low-countree.
Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird
Speak against peace right many a word;
And some shall admire his coneying wit,
For many good groats his tongue shall slit.
But spight of the Harpy that crawls on all four,
There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more
But England must cry alack and well-a-day,
If the stick be taken from the dead sea.
And, dear Englond, if ought I understond,
Beware of Carrots from Northumberlond.
Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get,
If so be they are in Somer set:
Their Conyngs mark thou; for I have been told,
They assassine when younge, and poison when old.
Root out these Carrots, O thou, whose name
is backwards and forwards always the same;
And keep thee close to thee always that name
Which backwards and forwards is almost the same.
And, England, wouldst thou be happy still,
Burn those Carrots under a Hill.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Choices
i prefer smooth peanut butter
to crunchy
mind you
crunchy is all right
but i prefer smooth.
i prefer strawberry jam
to raspberry
mind you
raspberry is tasty
but it's got all those seeds
and i prefer strawberry.
i prefer mustard
to mayonaisse
mind you mayonaisse has it's place
amongst condiments
but is likely to go bad
if left out to long
and poison everyone
so on the whole i prefer mustard.
i prefer cooked meat
to raw meat
for much the same reason
as i prefer mustard to mayonaisse
although it also has to do
with the fact that i don't
like my meat to bleat
or moo or make chicken noises (BAGOCK!)
when i eat
so i tend to avoid the raw
though mind you
the meat that i prefer
may at some time have been raw.
i prefer not to say
why i think so
but i do
and i suppose it's all
just a matter of taste
so if you'd prefer to think so
then crunchy is better
than smooth
even if it does interfere
with the texture of the
peanut butter
and jelly (strawberry) sandwich
which ought to be somewhat
devoid of substance
merely a sticky sweet something
to fill your stomach
put mayonaisse on it
if you like
i'd prefer not to think about it.
poem by Laura Sewell
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A Salad to Eat
Different hues...
Some not as bright but invites,
Those who come to eat eagerly
With an assorted presentation
That might satisfy an appetite.
With tomatoes and carrots,
Sliced apples and grapes...
Romaine lettuce sprinkled with chives
Topped with olive oil and vinegar,
Is a treat to see on a plate to delight...
And surprise.
Onions and green peppers,
Can please the eye with sensation.
When someone announces...
'I prefer a salad to eat! '
And they do without a moment's hesitation!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Robert The Horse
Robert the horse you are a very old horse
You owner feeds you every day
Carrots and apples
You love carrots and apples
Rober the horse
It is too cold to go out
And if you go out you might even die
Robert the hore
It is better for you to stay in your stable
That is in the basement of a house
poem by Aldo Kraas
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No Memo From You Did I Receive
What would 'you' prefer?
That I pretend I am not a writer,
With an interest that is expressed.
Or would you prefer I stay within boundaries,
Your mind has restricted to your limitedness?
Or would you prefer,
I reflect more of what you suspect I should be?
And would your suspicions have their development,
Centered from your perceptions?
Either way,
No memo from you did I receive.
And I admit,
Guessing is not what I do best.
And the only tests I 'prefer' to pass,
Are my own.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Reply to the Above, by F.W.F.
"Te quoque vatem dicunt pastores."—VIRGIL.
O Maxwell, if by reason’s strength
And studying of Babbage,
You have transformed yourself at length
Into a mental cabbage;
And if I've proved myself a lark
At morn and blushing even,
By soaring like a music-spark
Thro’ sapphire fields of Heaven,
Our diverse fates are now reversed
By strange metempsychosis,
Into a cabbage I have burst
And scorn poetic posies;
But you a lark with twinkling wings
O’er violet-banks are soaring;
Your voice the dewy rose-cloud rings
While Statics me are boring.
Yet cabbage as I will—on earth
My roots I cannot anchor,
For at my mathematic birth
Was also born a canker!
It soon will gnaw my roots away-—
But when I weigh a chœnix
I’ll freely soar to realms of day
An emerald cabbage-Phœnix.
Then talk not of the Poll to me,
I hate, detest, and scorn it;
I am as earnest as a bee,
But savage as a hornet.
And if they pluck me I will drown
Each pedant in a sonnet,
And of their pluckings make a crown
With golden plumes upon it.
So if my cabbage growth be slow
I'll try to be a carrot,
Or still remain a lark—but know
I'll not be Poll, or Parrot.
Then if I fall beneath the mark,
I’ll shout with accent savage,
"It is a lark to be a lark,
’Tis green to be a cabbage"
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Yemen
Yemen
It is awful poor country, with little to offer but carrots and sand.
Come to think about it very few carrots only brush land and dust.
People cry freedom but no one listens. A tiny place in the corner
of nowhere, mud huts and stones... no oil to lift a jaded spirit.
Chew a sort of weed that that lulls souls into stupor and bring
temporary peace. Yet they go on fighting tyranny despite being
ignored by us, we who must be selective in whom to defend.
They want to be free in a land where no roses bloom knowing
they have little to offer other, sand and stones and a longing
to be rid of tyranny. Help us they cry to the sky, but the world
is full of carrots, dry sticks. Love of once country is an odd thing
it can be full of scorpions and deadly snakes but it is the land of
their fathers they have seen it bathed in a golden hue at sunset
and they remember its hidden beauty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Albert's Allotment
Albert loved being on his allotment
he'd be on his plot everyday of the week
growing Cauliflower, Parsnip, Cabbage,
and winning awards for his Carrots, and Leek.
He spent so much time on his allotment
his wife thought he was having an affair
but Albert was more interested in his Potatoes
than any curvy woman with long Blonde hair.
When it rained Albert sat in his shed
reading Gardening books and having a cuppa
then he'd be out again digging for hours
till his wife called him in for his supper.
Albert liked growing all sorts of vegetables
but his favourite of the lot was the Marrow
he could grow them so big and so large
that some wouldn't fit into his Wheelbarrow.
Albert is buried down on his beloved allotment
as that was to be his final dying wish
when tearfully his wife asked him why he replied:
'So I can keep an eye on my Runner Beans and Radish! '
poem by Kevin Halls
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Blackeyed Peas and Fresh Carrots
Blackeyed peas and fresh carrots cooked,
Together...
Is a surprising combination that is delicious.
Boil a medium pot of water.
Add olive oil, salt, garlic and onion.
Soy sauce with a bit of lemon.
And butter too if you wish this to salivate.
Bring these ingredients together!
In at least a ten minute boil.
Add the blackeyed peas and carrots.
Lower the cooking heat.
And within fourty five minutes,
Enjoy as you eat!
Be careful.
You are going to want this everyday.
Over rice or mashed potatos.
Or perhaps...
With my,
Sweet and sour brown sugar baked steak.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Waiting
Oh, how I love the fine old chap
Who sits upon my left at meals,
And drops his cabbage, in my lap
From swooping fork, while he reveals
How he, at Hay, in '83,
Gave Hamlet's grand so-lil-o-quee.
He slops his supper beer o' nights,
Or fills my dexter ear with stout,
While strenuously he recites,
And hurls his lanky limbs about,
To prove that every modern cuss
Has missed the true Polonius.
His oysters down my back he'll throw,
Or freely spray me with his soup,
When suddenly inspired to show
How savage Ingomar should whoop,
Or illustrate the proper scream
With which to finish 'Denver's Dream.'
He throws his turnips everywhere;
With breakfast-tea he scalds my legs;
I've spuds and carrots in my hair;
And oft he's smitten me with eggs.
If e'er he shows, with humor grim
I'll throw these things all back at him.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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All Of Them Died Of Starvation
That meat and veg before you chew on,
Think of our beauty and charm,
The conclusion to our fate is not foregone,
Surely you wouldn't do us any harm.
Place that mashed turnip off to the side,
Think before you eat your roast beef,
Carnivores and veggies we cannot abide,
Eating us won't bring you relief.
Don't eat that pork you'll abhor the taste,
Cabbage you will never enjoy,
Eating poor vegetables is a terrible waste,
Poor animals you wouldn't wish to destroy.
Put that venison back in the field,
Place those carrots back in the ground,
If you eat us your fate will be sealed,
There's plenty of water to go round.
The meat and veg said let's make a pact,
We'll tell them God says their morals are bent,
Then fool them by saying our spirit has cracked,
If you eat us you'll forever repent.
They're so intelligent they believe in Gods,
These are entities they can't even see,
They won't think for a moment that we are the frauds,
Say we're deities and I'm sure they'll agree.
The humans believed us and now we all thrive,
That filled us all with elation,
Now there are no homo sapiens alive,