With your mocking fingers
You poked, teasing its
With its strength, you tossed it
Down on the shelf and complained
‘I don’t like the shape.’
Off you went and shopped around,
Leaving the heart to darken;
Tough and sinewy, now its freshness fades.
In the icy draught, it is cured; and
balmed in peppers, prepared
For the next connoisseur.