So I am meant to be fed to the monkey,
Wail till you have an encounter with my peel,
Without the night, stars you shall see,
For still life I join hands with friend apple,
Different shapes of me decorate a cocktail
I lie on the table as the knife slices me open,
An incision in my centre, split into pieces,
My seed in you sprout a plant
The likes of which you have to see to believe,
They should call you sprout a plant
I make ‘shakes’ about the reference
What you treasure to eat,
Out of which you should not make mincemeat