Kind of a tragedy, but a noble one.
Avocado, In Three Acts
There is no fruit with more bravado
Than the youthful avocado -
Hard as stone, with reptile skin,
Unafraid of mice or men.
The months fly by with no remorse,
Bringing on life's "second course" -
Toughness loses its allure,
He's far more mellow, more mature.
As his insides start to soften,
He thinks about the past more often.
Was all that swagger really smart?
Is there a cold pit at his heart?
His final days are far from lush,
Since he's little more than mush.
By time's swift march, he's rendered lowly -
How else would we get guacamole?