O. crocata

We thought him a piss drinking puritan,  

Our own demonic green man.

Humourless and tumour-less,  

The remorseless, missionary, Vegan.

He scraped a living from his garden,

His gleaning and his barter.

And what his garden lacked for veggie's,

He supplemented, out of hedges.

"More power to him," was the word in the dale,

"For we'd all do the same if the hedges brewed ale!"

Sure of his immortality and robust in his good health,

He never missed a chance to snipe; at medicine, work or wealth,

And his ever favourite target, was the High Street Supermarket.

We soon tired of his homily and his monolog, worse yet!

They found him cold, curled in the kitchen.

Where his "Vegan" soup, had a bacon end, from the skip behind the market,

With Lentils and, well, we'll never know, what he thought it to be.  

Coriander, Parsley, Parsnip, Celeriac or Celery?

He was well versed in his herbaries,  

But an oversight may have caused his demise,

For the white roots down by the running water,  

With the dancing greens, grow just for slaughter,

And they were in his book, under "O. crocata."

It seemed strange to me, that he just didn't know,

What the farm child learns, at the breast somehow,

For that's Hemlock Water Dropwort

And one handful killed our cow!

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