According to the Papaya

I’m fed up being a fruit. I’m fed up hanging around all the time, out
on a limb, waiting for the proper season to fall. Oh let me be a
vegetable. I want to sink roots straight into the earth, like tubers do.

Nubbly peel and frump, that’s me. Grocers lump me in with guavas
and bananas and other tropical fruits with Spanish accents. Apples
and peaches and smooth-skinned plums always get picked first.

I want to marry a mango and change my name. I want to rhyme
with tango. I want eyes, like a potato, so I can see the ecstasy on
the matador’s face when he sinks his teeth into my juicy flesh.

Joe Smith