My Favorite Fruit

My Favorite Fruit




Cherry red or sometimes orange,
Is the center of the green.
Stripes are quite in fashion,
But not mandatory, you know.
Larger than my daddy’s stomach,
But smaller than a walrus,
It’s quite too big to carry,
But I love to eat it up.

Shiny as my daddy’s head,
Usually streetlight emerald,
It's pretty just to look at,
But cool Mom calls it fruit
And thinks it's really good for us
Though it's sweet as candy.
I'm awfully glad we get to eat
As much as we can hold.

The best time is when she cuts it,
And the scent is fragrant flowers.
We eagerly crowd around and wait
As she slices ice-cold triangles,
Giving each of us our own.
Then we stand there dripping
With smiles covered in juice,
And gobble up three pieces.

We like to eat it in the backyard
So we can slurp it up and spit.
For the seeds are little missiles
That my brother and I can shoot.
We pucker up and watch the distance,
But he always wins the contest
Unless my father decides to try,
For he can spit the best.

My parents never seem to care
That we're spitting right and left.
Mom doesn't even lecture
About what's right and wrong
Because each small, black seed
Only falls in dirt and grows
Five more delicious blimps of
Watermelon to eat on hot, summer days.

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