I love to hold the ladies finger and gobble if fried.
But wonder, if drumstick beats drum or abdomen?
Egg grown on eggplant or from egg, plant is grown?
Radish is not red dish, mostly I see green and white.
We pump our kin with pumpkin into the Halloween.
I am afraid it may bleed, if is beaten, the beetroot.
In paper factory; is the mush stored in mush-room?
Mustard, has of course mastered to fry every thing.
Doesn’t chill rather burns the tongue, chilli is so hot.
The bitter guard does not guard, the taste bitter.
Very sincerely treats the animals, Dr. Butcher.
I muse, such amusing names, how the people got?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
let alone tomater, S.D.T.