Never let it be said that a Quince
Ran from a challenge or didn't take hints!
SONG OF THE ONION
Were I to sing about the onion
I'd have to bring in Damon Runyon,
a writer famed as racy; I
would list the known Lilaceae
of genus Allium: I'd speak
not just of cepa but of leek,
of chives, shallot (or scannion),
a few among its many dozens
of close and distant bulby cousins.
But lest I fell into a canyon
of rhyme contrived—on Damon Runyon
I'd say if he were still alive
he'd turn from onions in his grave!
I'd mention that he wrote the book
of Guys and Dolls; though both might cook
their onions well or eat them raw,
if they should sing then, stagecraft law
would make them do so several paces
apart, not in each other's faces.
I'd tell of claims (you may believe 'em)
that garlic, Allium sativam,
has oils to make us strong and well,
although they also make us smell.
So if (I'd say) these cloves you eat,
and find yourself out on the street,
since garlic stinks as bad as onion
please stay upon the side it's sunny on,
while I'd be on the shady side,
and if you crossed I'd run and hide.
But verse on matters alliaceous
I find is really too audacious.
To me, it's not at all a fun yen,
this urge to celebrate the onion.
I'd sooner sing of Pinot Noir,
which lingers friendlier by far.
[This message has been edited by Henry Quince (edited September 02, 2002).]
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