BY : ZEENAT IQBAL

So I am meant to be fed to the monkey,
Wail till you have an encounter with my peel,

Without the night, stars you shall see,
For still life I join hands with friend apple,

Different shapes of me decorate a cocktail
I lie on the table as the knife slices me open,

An incision in my centre, split into pieces,
My seed in you sprout a plant

The likes of which you have to see to believe,
They should call you sprout a plant

I make ‘shakes’ about the reference
What you treasure to eat,

Out of which you should not make mincemeatp