Used to be, my brother ‘n me,
On matters of eatin’, saw eye to eye.
He hated ketchup, it made me retch-up,
Marinara and salsa should die.
On matters of taste, the taste didn’t matter,
Every case that we faced we agreed.
Gazpacho, shakshouka, caprese, bruschetta:
All vile dishes indeed.
One day in summer, me ‘n my brother
Were out in the yard in the garden alone
(Sometimes I shudder, wonderin’ if Mother
Discovered the things that we done)
He pulled from the vine a tomato so fine
Tomato so fine, I never did see.
“Eat this tomato,” he dared. “If you say so!”
I ate the tomato with glee.
Thought he might cry, he started to whine,
“But we hate tomatoes!” I couldn’t reply.
My mouth was too full as I started to pull
The tomatoes all off of their vines.
Later that day, to explain the tomatoes,
My brother told Mother of all that he’d seen:
A gaggle of geese goin’ hard in the garden!
Yes, my brother, he covered for me.
So though by and by my brother ‘n I
Don’t see eye to eye on all that we eat
On matters that matter, we’re always together.
Forever my brother he’ll be.
Gabriella Writes 