Onion pie

An onion pie will make you cry twice.

Once with the knife with every single slice.

With its gases that the onion emits,

Asking your tears to come out to do splits.

They oblige and ooze on out,

Stinging your eyes and wetting their route.

The second tears come when you have a taste,

The wonderful taste lays taste buds to waste

They can’t cope so the tears come to help,

Lubricating the way while you just yelp.

Your body knows compensation is needed,

To make the food flow completely unimpeded.

That’s the two cries that it will provide,

And two smiles, if you’re sharp-eyed.

One for the cheap price right in the store,

The other when you’re comatose on your floor.

(An onion-y coma is deep and nice

You won’t be woken by rats or mice.)

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