Seeded, divided, sorted, devoured—
sun-ripened, hand-picked, ruby raspberries—
gently plucked, plopped, in their prime.
Those bruising raspberries should do hard time.
Thhhh . h . h, pttt . . tt . . . h, spit the seeds.
Delicate, elegant, easily crushed,
a dazzling temptress of fruitation,
she’s won hearts (young and old) earned devotion.
More shy than a cherry would ever be.
Thhhh . h . h, pttt . . tt . . . h, spit the seeds.
Manage to leave your tastebuds yearning still;
never will yearning ever fade, heal.
Little one so sweet one feels faint, swoons,
shimmering, memorable, rosey taste, devoured post-haste.
Thhhh . h . h, pttt . . tt . . . h, spit the seeds.
They’re savored by those who raise them with care--
not likely to be found . . . just anywhere.
Remarkably undermarketed they’re
drug-free, though many crave them, addictive.
Thhhh . h . h, pttt . . tt . . . h, spit the seeds.
Their bushes picked bare are quite vindictive.
Beware . . . there’s a thorn in every dream.
Nothing’s as innocent at it may seem.
Grab some raspberries and dream, baby, dream.

Thhhh . h . h, pttt . . tt . . . h, spit the seeds.