Poetry Soup With Carrots

The soup of me is poetry, I'll serve it to my friend Andrew and as he eats delicious treats I'll say to you, "Why's Andrew blue?" and you'll respond, "Well, listen, Juan, now please don't scoff, but it's bland broth," and now I see the poetry should be more true like carrot stew, and so I'll add (just like my dad) some carrots, two, for friend Andrew, but he's still blue, so what to do? I'll take the stew: no more for you, Andrew! "It's true, you see," you say to me, "You'll pay (not free) today, you'll see, if you can continue to poo-poo Drew for trying stew that was so bland, just understand, his tastes are true as me or you," and so I'll try to satisfy that picky Drew because he's true in what he says and I'd be dead if I was so unfair as to not understand that he's a man and he deserves more pleasing herbs, and so I'll try to add some thyme and if it works then I'll alert you to this thing and I'll be king and we'll be free. Democracy.