Onion Strategies Poem by Jan Sand

Smugly squatting on it=s hairy butt,
It=s green tipped sprout pointed to the ceiling,
Blithely unaware of my desire to cut,
Which I must do, I knew, without feeling -
To stab, assassinate this helpless vegetable,
All sympathies denied in culinary ardor,
To demolish this for my table,
Produce the required sauce to my larder.
Minced and browned in hotly hissing oil,
Its ambience would enhance tomato paste,
Give pointed purpose to my toil
Where pasta and tomato have embraced.
Warily I circled >round my victim,
Lined my knife up for the sacrifice,
I mumbled to myself the common dictum
That survival dictates I must slice.
I leaped, I swooped, I swung the vicious blade
To expose the virgin central core,
Its flame figure like a sculpted jade
Did not deter my manic strokes
Worthy of the Marquis de Sade.
My breathing came in short hard chokes.
The corpse, finally, was fried,
But at the end, I must admit, I cried.