Ode to Parsley

Sitting there, green and serene,
you sit and await your own demise,
patient, but it never comes,
you are simply shoved over on the side.

You respect the company you keep,
and hope to attain their riches flavor,
but still you lack that gentle touch,
you wish that you were the one we savor.

Ever present, always there,
you try and try again, but fail,
you think you offer us so much
but in comparison you pale.

You’ve become less a food and more an art,
That accents the beauty of the plate,
You may have aspirations to achieve,
but honestly, Parsley, you’re not that great.