Eriobotrya Japonica

Yours truly never heard, seen, no lies particularly when alone facing my (pushing up daisies) demise, without pretense nor guise, he honestly decries smelled, tasted, nor touched, any size, and essentially knew nothing besides ancient fruit grown in Japan for past 1,000 years as Earth flies thru space, now more about loquats, plethora of details to exercise memory bank, though this poetaster still tries to appear learned, no matter me no expert, I reckon eyes aforementioned small yellow size egg-shaped acidic fruit great breakfast, lunch, or dinner sup prize for dessert never knew the evergreen eastern Asian tree of rose family, in Thorndale residents at somber occasions, or holidays edibly feast as modus operandi to eulogize. If ever opportunity finds agriculturally cocksure and propensity doth arise to venture to savor succulent juice of Loquat, savoir faire mine mean mien to one epicure this wordsmith, whatever his wordsworth as whitman, he will need to remove lower denture minor inconvenient truth (er tooth), where jaws comprise juncture and/or chop delectable treats into byte size morsels. Perhaps before I lay me down to sleep forever and a day launched into death be not proud, aye will strive to appease culinary yen oy vey searching high and low unexpectedly axed about diddly squat (a spot, pimple, or sty) seated please and lemme introduce myself, cuz thar thou looking for specific monsignor okay thy my quest, I wilt thus assay to indulge me secrete, and rejoice hip... hip... hooray if thee will allow any which way, yours truly to supplicate, perhaps magic discovery after I pay obeisance and pray to Mother Nature my hunger, she will allay. If ambition to satiate loquat all naught please scatter cremated ashes, upon bed of loquat sought but ne'er found, cuz earnestness to secure coveted desire fraught, not necessarily in vain if I got repurposed to commingle, viz this pauper devoid of haute cuz thrift stores find me where clothes get bought.