The king of fruit we fondly eat,
Unassuming, not in big league,
Nor pricey, common man’s best friend
Ever since it came to this land,
And butt of some bawdy wry dig,
Sure there seems something strange with it.
Men go banana with it ever hence,
May be the fruit’s peculiar name
That draws to limericks leg-pulling pens,
I’ve heard it serenading on dames:
What a lady of lovely thighs, one coots!
That curves like a pair of banana fruits.
And down the hill oh all the way
Contemptuous pity to portray,
And a fertile mind went ahead
And sang of having banana
With none else but Lady Diana,
Oh from dining table to bed!
Take one of Emerson’s1 known ilk
Who wove what was no purest silk:
Civil prudes scarce loved hot zones,
Where snow falls there be frozen bones,
But where the fruit grows man is sensual, ‘
Lucky, none fell for this racial fuel.
Humorists cannot but enjoy
One slipping on banana skins,
Wodehouse, no shy to such a ploy,
Talked of treading on life’s banana skins,
Himself slipped off— on his own game,
Hitler’s henchman when he became.
Now, politicians— every shade,
Cause and targets of a red face,
Many a slip this fruit does cause,
Yet, coins come with two sides, do pause
To think; and each side has its place,
Such digs have the fruit fancy made.
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Ways of the words | 03.08.13 |
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