A Poem to Point Fingers

In the middle of our garden a tomato had grown
So big we decided to put a top hat on it
And call it Mr. Tomato. Mr. Tomato,
Would you like some tea? we would ask,
And one of us would do his voice: Yes, please.
Almost immediately he began to demand a wife.
A real peach, he said. All we had was a cow,
So we led her over to Mr. Tomato and tied
Her to his vine. The next morning we discovered
That the cow had eaten him, and was wearing his top hat.
Now I need a husband, she demanded, although
In truth it was one of us in a cow-like voice.
The only suitable mate was my brother,
Who we led over and tied to the cow’s bell.
The next morning we discovered my brother
Had eaten the cow and was wearing her top hat.
Now I need a wife, he pleaded, although he
Wasn’t old enough to talk. We rummaged
Through the barn, which contained so many things.
A jar of canned tomatoes would do, so we tied
My brother around its neck, and immediately
They began to mate. The next morning we awoke
From some dream or other to find that a city
Had sprouted all around us. We could not find
Our brother – perhaps he was an old man who
Had just driven off to some black tie affair?
Anyway, we were tied to our beds,
And if premonitions were to be trusted,
We’d better stay that way.