Gazpacho

Picked some veggie's from my garden. Cut em' up and minced em. Now I don't have a fire. And the soup get's served up cold. On a hot summer day, still not refreshing. Such a distasteful delight. Pinch your nose and close your eye's. Still ain't right. She dresses in pretty dress's. Waving waves of poetic guess's. Ice veins, blood cold suggestess. Match flame flicker's out distress's. There's cafe's signage down the street. A picnic checkerboard and seat. A hearty howdy, nice to meat. See ya tomorrow, maybe.