I Won’t Eat Kale

I won’t eat kale, I won’t eat kale.
There’s nobody can make me.
I’d rather eat a coffin nail
And pray the Lord to take me.

It’s good for you! A super food!
I hear the health nuts spittle.
Which leaves me with an attitude
That’s worse than non-committal.

It used to be for mere display
around a garden’s borders.
But now, alas, to my dismay,
Kale’s served on doctors’ orders.

Of flavonoids, there’s forty-five
for detox comprehensive.
But I’d prefer to burn alive
Than eat what’s so offensive.

Though famed for fighting cancers
Such as colon, breast, and ovary,
To arsenic I’d turn for answers
Just like Madame Bovary.

I’m fond of many other leaves
Like collards and Swiss chard
But kale, I say, gives me the heaves
More than frenching a St. Bernard.

Curly, plain, or dinosaur
I never will inhale.
I’d rather touch a gyno sore
Than eat a plate of kale.

God knows that it’s been blogged to death
By people meaning well
And I just might be flogged to death
For damning kale to hell.

“What harm’s it ever done to you?”
You very well might ask me.
After I tell you, I may well impel you to
Embalm me and then cask me.

In a town made of celebrity maps
And high profile divorces,
I worked for a woman with toothy caps
Much larger than a horse’s.

She swore by kale– its healthy merits–
Which always caused me pain.
I’d opt to be rogered to death by ferrets
Than think of her mouth again.

Those equine teeth with bits of green matter
Caught in between her gums
Was enough to cause my stomach to scatter
(And a growing addiction to TumsĀ®).

The thought still haunts me in my dreams
And causes psychic pain.
So I’d rather be quartered by oxen teams
Than ever see kale again.



About Michael Procopio

I write about food and am very fond of Edward Gorey. And gin.
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