Apple, you are the color of a rose,
And you hide the shade of good, healthy grass.
Apple, though your peel is red, I suppose
Your insides green, by my nose’s report crass.
Are you not full of worms, my dear apple?
I suspect that they thrive under your skin,
Taking you apart with many mouths’ pull,
And breeding and birthing their wormy kin.
But look how hungry I am, dear apple.
I have not eaten in so many days.
My once-strong arms are becoming supple,
And my mind is dissolving in a haze.
Therefore, apple, I pray to the good Lord,
And take a bite, hoping my prayer was heard.