The Killer Cucumber
Of all the quiet salad veg
That hang about the chopping board
The cucumber lacks punch or edge
And, if unpickled, is ignored:
It adds a sort of liquid crunch,
Is diced or sliced. No crisis
Accompanies its munch at lunch.
It’s left to its devices.
But now the melon’s poor relation
Has come out of the cooler
And caused some nations indignation
And lost a lot of moolah:
From Barcelona to Madrid
The grocers preach their sermons:
Underneath their crops, the skids
Through the perfidy of Germans.
Fifty years ago, the fright
Was caused by Cuban nukes;
Instead the threat of fatal blight
Comes from E. coli cukes.
What is it that will seal our fate,
The end of us? The fuss
Occurs if we find on our plate
Yes, cucumbers must have our number,
Will blow us all to Betsy,
Awoken from their nasty slumber
Like triffids, locusts, tsetse:
Those sandwiches in Oscar Wilde
Will bring us to perdition
Though watery and meek and mild.
How like the Coalition.