Apologies to Tennyson
Beyond the teathered sheaves of barley,
she sent me and cousin Charley.
Beyond where Lancelot had ridden,
into the farmers field unbidden.
There to fetch on home an onion,
to make a poultice for her bunion.
We pluckethed here, we pluckethed there,
in abandon wild, without a care.
We filled a sack up to complete.
With various veggies twas replete.
At first me lady seemed quite thrilled,
but then her sweet demeanor chilled.
For in the sack she found no onion,
for remission of her bunion.
A likely tuber I held high,
“Doth this thing not suit the eye?
I say to you, this thing will do.
No need to vote, and count the ballot.
What you see is what you got.
Just shut up, and use the shallot!”