“Oh! What as sad sad life I am forced to lead,”
said broccoli to the scrambled plate of peas,
“that no child would ever want to eat a tree like me,
they prefer oaks and willows and birches, you see.”

“Ah! My friend of such green green hue,”
said peas. “I feel as though I can relate to you,
seeing as my small shape is so strange to chew
no child would devour a dish looking like I do.”

“Woe is us! Silly little things made of healthy green,
we are pushed around on this plate which by no means,
makes us anymore enticing to the children who have seen,
the stories of skin turning a vibrant shade of green,
from eating vegetables such as we seem to have been.”

“Don’t cry like babies you ghoulish green chums,”
said carrot to the gloomy plate of leftover crumbs,
“there is only one thing children hate more than you bums.
It’s the orange tint, from my own hue, that their skin becomes.”

“So true!” The lonely nutrients chanted in tune,
“we cannot imagine living the sad life that you do,
if only we could all escape from this dish of doom,
and sleep in a garden full of spacious room.”