The prune and the pea


A prune lay shrivelled all alone,
Full of juice she picked the phone
(a phone box, dingy, dull yet dry
Beneath the dreary Bexhill sky).
She dialled the number, plain to see,
She tried to reach her call, the pea.
She wittered on and whatted so,
Her thoughts flew fast, her life was slow.
The pea responded, thoughtless quick.
His voice was honey, oil slick.
The prune grew drier day by day,
pea couldn’t hear a word she said.
The moral of this story is:
Fruit and vegetables just don’t mix.

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