fruit fucks

is it a felon my dear, to question upon a lesson of a pair of watermelons?
or perhaps honeydews for they construe a far suitable size.
i wont hesitate to imply the wondrous look within your eye
sweeter than a ripened mango would you care to tango?
take into consideration the temptation to fall into the rutabaga saga
sour turnips flourish in a furnished abode of thy broth. wading.
crisp reactions like romaine causes me to switch lanes, i have been trained to spot crops behind the window pane prepared for harvest
i am in love with the peach fuzz, the nectarine dreams, fun with plums.
haunting broccoli is stalking me, haunting me. oppressed by cauliflower power.
my god i want to taste that sweet juice. just fucking set me loose already, slow and steady becoming increasingly uneasy. i want to explode, bursting like a blueberry.
in a row stand the eggplants, rocking back and forth purple with mocking laughter. my impenetrable stature is indeed hard to capture even in the face of hot house tomatoes. these red faced jealous foes with there worried brows wilt at the vine. like a lavish radish you kick in. ive been spending to much time with the royal galas, the heroic spartans, the humble mcintosh's the golden hearted and the wise granny smiths. apricocks. if it takes a cucumber rammed up my brown eye ti wake me from this slumber. then so be it. i could use the fiber. i look upon the pistachios and dates with a clean slate. the bitter aftertaste is gone. just think fruit.