Gordon G Hall
Writer and Neo-Philhellene

Poetry to Fool

Riddle One

If you really cannot 'get' this riddle, email me at words@lakefell.com

I am the strength of your platter
But in Spring your taste-buds go dead
In Classes I thrive if I'm fatter
But in Sets I am sent to my bed

I am your Golden Gourmet
On Camelot's fair isle
And Shah Jahan's sad story
Where my Purple roused his bile

If you tear at my skin I don't bellow
For its you that will tearfully cry
What's more it can turn things yellow
As soon as it boils – then I dye

I can make your libido feel tickled
But I'm floppy and green in your bed
Take me raw or stewed or pickled
Have me white or yellow or red

My skin is withered and peeling
I'm chopped and shredded and sliced
Or I'm silver and captive and reeling
In the wine they sponged up to Christ

A Breton may peddle with care
A necklace of me on a string
But as you unwrap me beware
For not I, but your eyes, will sting



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