Vegetables by Eleanor Farjeon

The country vegetables scorn
To lie about in shops,
They stand upright as they were born
In neatly-patterned crops.

And when you want your dinner you
Don't buy it from a shelf,
You find a lettuce fresh with dew
And pull it for yourself;

You pick an apronful of peas
And shell then on the spot.
You cut a cabbage, if you please,
To pop into the pot.

The folk who their potatoes buy
From sacks before they sup,
Miss half of the potato's joy,
And that's to dig it up.