12 lines
411 B
Markdown
12 lines
411 B
Markdown
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the okra heart makes your ankles itch
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and its slimy pods, a chore to love.
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fried up feverishly, breaks to bits,
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though roasted, enduring tougher stuff,
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okra hearts grow into rattling husks.
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beaten to mush or soaked in a batter,
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even on platters, it’s just too much,
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and nobody wants it - growing mangled together
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in hatred of the sun, to chagrin of the farmer.
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okra, stay soft - nourish daughter and father.
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