Ode to My Ageing Parsnip.

If Wordsworth can be imagined to have written an ode to The Withered Turnip, I think it only fair to acknowledge the parsnip in like manner. Of course, those inclined to seeing double entendre at the mere slip of a garter might read it differently.

My ageing parsnip’s past its best

It’s gone all soft and droopy.

I think it’s time it had a name;

I think I’ll call it Snoopy.

I’m not a Snoopy, quoth the veg,

I’m nothing like a beagle.

I think that you should call me Rex

Because I’m rather regal.