On the dinner table- isolated

Pale hands reaching over

My apple breath bated

Will they choose me?

Will I be the one?

To feel the caress

Of a wet pink tongue?

Nope- they picked the pear

My red skin is gonna bruise

If I'm not the fruit

That the fam' will choose!

I'll sit here till I'm brown

And my stem will whittle down

Till I'm something further

Down the fruit chain-

A raisin, perhaps?

Hopefully, nothing like that

Come on, damnit!

I keep the doctor away!

I clean your damn teeth!

One of me, everyday!

Just pluck me from this table

Take a great big bite

Of my apple-y skin

I won't put up a fight

Digest me in your stomach

And when the meal is done

Just ditch me in the toilet

And grab another one