O’ Beautiful Corn, you grow so high.
Up to our knees by Fourth of July.
Up to our chest in August late.
Just in time for harvest date.
O’ Beautiful Corn, grown from the lands.
We buy you from the local stands.
A dozen ears won’t cost a lot.
Shall be enough to fill our pot.
O’ Beautiful Corn, in husks of green.
We peel them to reveal your sheen.
A job, our children we employ.
One of the jobs they do enjoy.
O’ Beautiful Corn, you precious food.
You always put me in the mood.
For friends and fun and barbeques.
And summer meals we can’t refuse.
O’ Beautiful Corn of shining Maize.
Your fresh picked taste on summer days.
Soaked in butter, sprinkled with salt.
Your goodness we should all exalt.
O’ Beautiful Corn, your cobs we strip.
With our teeth we tear and rip.
Like a typewriter moving ‘cross the page
That’s how it’s done at any age.
But Beautiful Corn, we must confess.
There’s a question we can only guess,
has been asked by people o’er and again,
even the pilgrims way back when.
See, Beautiful Corn, we are distressed.
Why your kernels, we cannot digest.
Every other food we turn to poo.
Why can’t we do the same with you?
The End (pun intended)! 🙂