MY ONION.
I love to see my onion grow
And send its shoots up in the air.
It is a homely plant, I know,
But yet its stalks are green and fair.
They say the rose would smell as
If called by any other name,
And so to make my joy complete;
A rose and onion are the same.
For you may call it what you like,
By any name that’s long or small,
And though you smell all day and night,
The onion has no smell at all.
This is wilful peevishness: the protest of some professional kicker: