There is a garden in her face
Where diverse vegetables grow;
Yet a ploughed plot could have more grace
Than whatever hell had to show.
There carrots and mauve turnips thrive
Till "turnip-ripe" they stay alive.
Those turnips grow in random rows
Next to the peas that pods enclose,
Which, when she grins, she might expose.
They look like beads with peevish glows.
Yet for mere peas no fool would strive,
Till "pea-pod ripe" they stay alive.
Her nose is like a Brussels sprout
Her forehead a furrowèd patch,
With ears of cauliflower no doubt
And beetroot cheeks that fail to match.
Of them all peers themselves deprive
Till "beetroot-ripe" they stay alive.
With apologies to Thomas Campion (1567 - 1620)