When I Was Racist

When I was young And felt a little glum My Mum would cheer me With a plum. I began to eat them daily, Demolishing entire punnets With aplomb. How I loved those big, fat, Red-purple fruit bombs Juicing between my lips, Never failing to elicit A contented ‘Yum!’ But one night after Dinner my Mum Offered me a yellow one. I turned my head And mouthed disgust At the pale, pus-like Imitation of my habitual Fruity dream feast. This fruit was diseased. I refused to feed. I snubbed that sickly grub. My mother paused, Then held her breath, Turning black Like an overripe plum. “You know what your problem is,” She cried. “You’re racist!” Then she took the entire Crate of plums and pelted Me until I was welted With plum coloured bruises. “You see, discoloured plums Still have their uses!” Now I am grown up And Minister for Equal Opportunities. On a celebrity reality TV show They hooked me up To a lie detector machine And asked me if I had Ever been racist. I blushed (like a plum).