Totally Tout Apricot From Tot To Totter Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Fair Apricot shares love a lot,
blooms zooming up to sky,
I watched from cot in garden grot
its spring sprigs spring so spry.

Where pomegranate, peach, plum plot
to steal the limelight, I
few first fruits praise, cross T's, I's dot,
all else disqualify.

For tart lime, lemon, like a shot
can't care a fig, decry
Squash mango tango! Quince cannot
high standards satisfy.

To Hyacinth prefer seems sot
when Apricots ally
so many healing virtues, blot
out competition's cry.

Though apple white, pink cherry pot
have beauty none deny
no foxglove craze praise half as hot
as Apricot apply.

Lady's Slippers like a shot
two lips dismiss, decry
red tulips to my mind rot,
ten seem compared, I sigh.

Blue Eye Fuchsia's no hotshot
Prunus armeniacae
aphrodisiac, it's no longshot,
to tumours wave bye-bye.

As babe begot I'd seedlings spot
and ever wonder why
from sweet seed pot to sunny spot
transplanted were nearby.

Mandarin at Angkor Wat
may harbour passing fly,
but cannot make the grade, I'd swat
them out of hand, wan, wry.

Apples', pears' or berries' slot,
no pride of place hold. why?
Who'd photoshop sweet Apricot?
no other fruit espy!

As tiny tot I soon could trot,
would try to knot my tie,
and tie a knot, for this could not
my searching spirit try.

Then up I shot, a dread despot,
though not yet four foot high;
and the upshot? the tree had got
taller by far than eye.

I ne’er forgot when it was hot
to rinse roots somewhat dry,
its crop I’d pot to cook compot,
each quintal quantify.

I dream a lot on Apricot
as dread Death’s dot draws nigh:
ere Charon’s cot to Hades hot
Acheron’s swamps sweeps by.

For ‘tis Man’s lot with boring bot
in septic slumber lie;
providing food for worm, maggot,
to rot while false friends lie.

Forget me not, please pitch my plot,
this last wish gratify,
let Apricot my last cold cot,
grave headstone signify.