A poem by Olive Devaud

Borrowed with thanks from the Powell River Historical Museum and Archives

Odes by O.D. 1965 Onions If you’re wanting to cook a real tasty steak, What is the vegetable you always take? To make that good odour no one can mistake? ----------Why, an onion! Some days you are grouchy, your appetite is fickle, It’s hard to find something your palate to tickle, But your roving eye at last lights on a pickle, -----------With an onion. You don’t feel too good and your appetite’s poor, Your meal must be simple, of that you feel sure, So you just make some soup and feel quite secure, ---------With an onion. You look in your larder and want to make do With the meat that you have, without getting new, You cut it all up and call it a stew, ---------With an onion. Your old Auntie comes to you for a rest, Before very long she complains of her chest, Her old fashioned poultice she swears is the best, ---------With an onion. When after a while she departs with a sigh, You say you sorry, but feel you can’t cry, But at the last minute, there’s a tear in your eye, ---------With an onion. There’s just one occasion on which you feel mean, You see someone coming, and feel  you should scream, You’ve scented yourself and it isn’t a dream, ----------With an onion. Olive Devaud