Please Pass the Salad

What do you do when your brother always takes the best parts of the salad before it gets to you? Write angry poetry about it!

Ah, Ah! Ah! No!

Thou treacherous villain!

Unhand her!

You undress our fair repast, ogle it through a glass wall,

sieze by force the purest it has to offer.

Lettuce, my darling, nevermore

shall I hold your supple form in my teeth.

You deflower, plucking bright red tomatoes,

which nevermore shall burst in my mouth

releasing their sweet seeds,

the crowning glory of the banquet before us.

I shall wither away without her,

dying of scurvy at the hands of intemperate fate,

which hath decreed

that the meal shall be passed widdershins round the table. Tis devilish!

This you call restraint?

This you call generosity?

You know very well, fraternal thorn,

that I do not like carrots!

Anon, thou sayest? False knave!

Truly, this fair eve will be yesteryear

ere the sorry remnants of the salad

make their way betwixt us.