Better than peaches

A shop beside the cobblestone sidewalk
Enticed us closer to its door.
Shelves piled high with towers around us
Spoke of blood and sweat of yore.

The pungent odor of edam, brie
Gouda, leyden shocked my core
As we scuffled off the terrace
Into the quarters of the seasoned store

This, that, or the crusty one on the tray

Along with the remnant in the drawer

Compels my pate to hallucinate

And the soul and imaginings to soar

What e’er my loathsome hand should find

That it shall devour

A hair breadth from a pickle rind

Or scuffling a shriveled flower

What I would give ‘bout now

To have a morsel just to taste

Only a slice then I would vow

To surrender forever the curdled paste.

We the peachers!

O timothy,

it is of utmost imperative that we stem the antipeachers. their purposes in demolishing the peach and its adherents are incomprehensible, reprobate, and hoggenbottomish. They have drunk the wine of incredulity, and now, stumbling in the half-dawn darkness, they prepare a whirling onslaught of despimolitude! We, the peachers, will fight with every fiber of our peaches, we will throw the rottens out!

Strategy! this, as I lay dreaming (of peaches of course!) occurred to me. we must unite under the peachtree, pandora's perpetual pontificate, strong in stomach, to face the desperate villany which unite under any other banner save that of the peach. Hithertoo, we have known the Grapers, the Mangoors, and the Villihudians to be our enemies. Ah sweet comfort, to know thine enemy! But now, those schisms and offshoots, the Nectarines, and more recently the Pluotians, have drifted to a polar opposite in purpose, united as they are in backspacing our peaches, our peachy lives, our peach pits!

Hurl and Pare, Hum and Flare! Let every peacher sing!

Sing of morning cool, moisture thick, juices spurt, and succulence sweet! Orchard's breeze, blowing warm on waving grasses where the hum-hum's warble in tune with the blue, blue skies. Comfort thick, and softness warm, waters cold, and tears caress for pure-pure hurt of beauty known.

So let the peachers sing, and sing it strong,
So that echoes last, when we are gone.

JH