On the hill where serious olive tree look like an army of ancient generals, a lone citrus tree stands and I, a yellow lemon, longing for love.
The maiden, who milk the dawn, came and picked and caressed me with her strong hands and kissed me tenderly till I almost blushed.
She tripped on an exposed olive root I fell out of her hands and rolled down hill came to rest between two rocks where a snake swallowed me whole
She killed the snake freed and dried me on her apron that had pretty bluebells on forgave me for running away then she cut me in half squishing me dry.
