Even though Peaches could be the pits, I knew she'd never call the fuzz.
I'm the kinda guy that works hard for his celery and I don't mind telling you I was feeling a bit wilted. But I didn't carrot all.
I try never to disparagus and I don't sweat the truffles.
I'm outstanding in my field and I know something good will turnip eventually.
I hailed a passing Yellow Cabbage and told the driver to cart me off to Broccolyn.
I was going to meet my brother across from the eggplant where he had a job at the Saffron station pumpkin gas.
As soon as I saw his face, I knew he was in a yam.
He told me his wife had been raisin cane. Her name was Peaches:
a soiled but radishing beauty with HUGE goards.
My brother had always been a chestnut, but I could never figure out why she picked him.
He was a skinny little string bean who had always suffered from cerebral parsley. It was in our roots.
Sure, we had tried to weed it out, but the problem still romained.
He was used to having a tough row to how, but it irrigated me to see Artichoke, and it bothered my brother to see his marriage going to seed.