Without apologies to Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never face
A plum so cold and sweet to taste.

A plum whose skin is taut and tart,
The acme of the grower’s art;

A plum that sits in calm repose,
Awaiting as its ripeness grows;

A plum about which I must say
I took it and I had my way;

Which you had set aside to greet
When you emerged to breakfast eat.

Plums are eaten by fools like me,
But your forgiveness sets me free.