Four score and seven years ago, there was a basket of fifty onions. These onions were to see three wee sailors across the South Pacific. It was expected that the fruit and the other veggies would quickly meet their doom, felled by the stifling, moist heat. But when the baskets were empty and the shelves stood bare, the onions would keep their spirits, and rescue these poor three wee sailors from a life of infinite cans. For the hardy onions were up for a fight, and would stand proudly on the battlefield till the end.
Alas, dreams and hopes are not always met: their innards turned black with the mark of onion rot, the onions perished within a week. Rather than being added to the pasta pot, the onions’ hearts were returned to the sea. Polynesian sunsets shall remain but a dream for the onions, as shall fresh food for the three. To be lost at sea is a terrible fate for an onion, but at least they tried.
A gruesome spell was cast,
And the onions would not last.
For the heat was fierce and the rot did pierce,
Our dear onions in their hearts.
From little fields in a far land they came,
To help three sailors from intestinal shame.
By little waves in a far sea they sleep,
Ashamed that through battle they could not keep.