The Fig
The fig may look curiously prunish,
A testicle fresh from the water,
A wrinkled delinquent - but, soonish,
My teeth will accord it no quarter.
Its innards may look rather seedy,
The raw-red of lips split asunder,
But I'm in the mood to be greedy,
And wolf it with relish and wonder.
Perhaps it reminds me of punches,
Perhaps it reminds me of Mother,
But I like the way the flesh crunches:
Excuse me, I'll just eat another.