The Pear

There hangs this bellied pear, let no rake doubt, Meat for the tongue and febrile to the skin, Wasting for the mildew and the rot, A tallow rump slow rounded, a pelt thin And for the quickest bite; so, orchard bred, Heaviest downward from the shaking stem. Whose fingers curve around the ripened head Lust to split so fine a diadem. There is the picker, stretches for the knife, There are the ravening who claw the fruit, More, those adjuring wax that lasts a life, And foxes, freak for cunning, after loot. For that sweet suck the hornet whines his wits, But husbandman will dry her for the pits.