Because, you see, I am allergic
To those hairy little miscreants
It’s fantastic, anaphylactic
My kryptonite… Is a kiwi
Those testicular spheres of mischief.
Do they taste like their citrus sisters,
Or more like their jealous brothers
Are they just grapes with fur like an ape that’s covered in mould
Or do they taste like their Avian namesake
Are they just chickens of the fruit bowl?
One thing I do know, though
Is that if I ever have to kill myself
If the depression gets too much
Or I join MI5 and a mission’s messed up
I would do so with a kiwi.
Squeeze its juice to my mouth from my hand
Wait for my face and my throat to expand
Roll around gurgling, a bloated harlequin
They’d try to save me with adrenaline
But it would be too late.
And although it wouldn’t be very dignified
Dying with a puddle of fruit juice by my side
At least the whole world would remember me
And the way I died
On the day that I committed