The Lemon’s Lament
by Mary Fons © 2015
A lemon’s a tragic figure,
And we’ve all got juice on our hands;
Without wish to understand it,
We make lemony demands.
We clamor for slices and wedges,
Ne’er valuing his or her whole —
Unless there’s food to squeeze it on,
A lemon rots within th’ bowl.
“Water with lemon,” we oft request;
“Lemon with my fish!”
While lemon must quell its agony
And roundly reject the wish
To feel fingers peel away
Its pockmarked, pithy skin,
Exposing tender fruit meat,
Poised to drip down someone’s chin.
Nay, this has never happened;
(A lemon hardly peels!)
Instead it’s razed into sour wafers
With no regard to how that feels.
Tabbouleh, pound cake, salad dressing
All need a touch of tart;
For the chef to achieve th’ flavor profiles,
It’s tang they must impart.
‘Course they won’t then toss the lemon in
To whatever dish they serve;
The lemon’s tossed into the bin,
(The callousness, the nerve!)
But Lemon knows they cannot do it —
It’s accepted this as fact;
It has no life beyond a garnish,
The squirt its closing act.
For when we choose a fruit to eat
The lemon has no place;
It offers only pain to man —
It’s written on his face.
Lemon plays the outfield, always
Never pitcher, never hitter,
Forever weeping acid tears;
And you wonder why it’s bitter.
*Hello! I thought I’d post a recently revised and updated version of The Lemon’s Lament tonight. Whenever life seems a bit on the bewildering side, writing fruit poetry makes everything better. This is an actual fact of honest truth in my life. Read this one aloud to someone you love who is nearby: husband, girlfriend, cat, plant! All of ’em at once!