Sam Carrot awoke to the sunshine warming the dew off his head. He had bean chili through the night. “Hey Harry, wake up.”

“Good morning, Sam. I dreamt that there was this grate radish party in the next patch. One classy tomato came up to me and wanted to get saucy.”

Sam laughed. “Orange you ashamed.”

Harry said, “I wasn’t berry sorry. Where women fear to tread, a mango bravely. She wanted to marry, but I know I cantaloupe. Let’s Russian dressing so we’re not late to salad school.”

Sam and Harry pulled themselves out by the roots and kissed their Mother Earth good-bye.

“Where’d you get that peachy fruit band?” Harry asked Sam once they were Romaine.

“Im-pressed? I got it in a melon rebate. I’ll get you one if another turnips.”

“Look,” Harry nudged his friend. “There’s Peter Plum under that tree. I had heard he dropped off and joined a fruit gang. Now he lies around all day getting juiced. It’s soy sad.”

Peter spotted them. “Hey, look you fruits, it’s a pear of carrot-top kids. Where you bean? To the jeweler to look for your carat pear-ants? Ha ha ha.”

Sam yelled, “Nuts! You think you’re so grape. You guys are all stewed.”

One of the gang threw a pit that barely missed Sam. “Get out of here, pansies, or we’ll blend ya.”

Harry gave Sam apple. “Come on, Sam. Ignore those rotten prunes.”

“Yeah. They’ll never earn a decent celery and always live endives.”

In hurrying away they strolled from the garden path in front of a speeding Greyhound. Harry jumped snap-pea, but poor Sam was squashed. It looked like he had bean through a processor. There was shredded carrot and carrot juice everywhere.

Sam wined, “Peas help me, Harry. I’m drying!”

That was only parsley true, for as the juice drained from Sam, an ambulance sprung up. Three corns popped from the back and tossed all of Sam’s parts into a bowl. While Harry told them what happened, they were all ears. They tried to start an IV line, but searched in vein.

“Leaf it and let’s get going,” one said with a husky voice. Harry garnished the front seat on the way to the hospital.

Outside of the operating room door Harry jiggled about like a serving of fruit Jello. He was afraid Sam had been kaled. Finally an old wizened sweet potato rolled out.

“I yam Dr. Yam and that’s all that I yam,” he said. “Harry, I have good news and bad news about Sam.”

“Spud-er it out, Doctor,” Harry pleated.

“Well, Harry, Sam’s going to live, yes. But he’s going to be a vegetable all his life.”