He's eaten his greens!

I've eaten my greens.

I've eaten my greens.
It didn't make any difference,
And now you look at me worried,
Do I smell?
This expression of disbelief that you keep special for me,
Self-taught? Or merely a nasty compromise.
There are three things growing near the shed that I didn't plant,
And yet,
I swear they'll be there next spring.
We cry out for understanding,
But these words, these ciphers are all we are left.
Tomorrow I'll buy you something in purple,
Or anything you desire of me.
Take the measured tone and dwell on the cryptic,
Tease the moment to it's ballistic potential,
And sense the novice and his dream.
Revile the tasteless multitudes, their many coloured ice creams,
While steam plumes spout from a thousand Victorian chimneys.
The day-release conceit of the would be lyricist,
Who dabbles by the draughty window,
Somnolent but never distressed by the lack,
The fact of all that passes him by.
And still they wait for his demise,
Astonished at his tact and guile,
A broad beamed smile, at least a half-mile wide.
And gently does it on the tide.
No sink or swim to set him free,
But turbulence and the stench of three,
Revealed in tableaus, Gnostic, sublime,
Coptic faces steeped in the vine
I've eaten these greens,
And the difference was in the leaf,
And what it meant to me.
And what it meant to me.