I am not a picky eater.
I eat veggies, fruits, and meats.
There’s only one thing I despise,
and that, dear friend, is beets.
Last night at the dinner table,
my mother offered me a plate
and on it were oozing red slices
of the one food I hate.
“They’re really quite good,”
my father said with a grin.
“Try one, and you’ll find out.”
Beet juice ran down his chin.
“Yeah!” said my brother.
“They may taste bad, but it’s cool.
“When you eat a bunch of these
“you’ll have dark purple stool”
Before I could ask him
what he meant by that,
my mother shushed him
and gave my head a pat.
“Darling child” she said.
Her voice was nice and sweet
“I won't ask you again,”
she stabbed a juicy beet.
She lifted it up to my face.
“You’ll see just one won’t hurt,”
she shoved it right into my mouth.
It tasted just like dirt.
I tried to spit it out,
but my father shouted, “Don’t you dare.”
So I twisted my face,
and I gave him a really mean stare.
“Don’t give me that look, he said
“Beets are good for your liver
“No dessert until it’s eaten up.”
I felt my stomach shiver.
I chewed it and forced it down.
My gross task was complete.
Twenty years have passed,
and I still hate those nasty beets