“Pineapple and/or Plumeria Farming”
I’d love to be the daughter of a plumeria farmer.
Leaving my windows open all night and day so the
floral fumes could overwhelm my clothes and bedding.
A pineapple farming father wouldn’t be too bad either.
Raw tongues and palates from saccharine sour triangular
prisms. Imagine the bacon sharing a skillet with some
yellow sweetness. I don’t even like bacon. My father
accidentally farmed some pineapple back then. He cut
one up and threw the top in the backyard and as it began
to sprout he watered it, and it flourished into a
beautiful mini spiked spud, tangier but still sweet.
Leaving my windows open all night and day so the
floral fumes could overwhelm my clothes and bedding.
A pineapple farming father wouldn’t be too bad either.
Raw tongues and palates from saccharine sour triangular
prisms. Imagine the bacon sharing a skillet with some
yellow sweetness. I don’t even like bacon. My father
accidentally farmed some pineapple back then. He cut
one up and threw the top in the backyard and as it began
to sprout he watered it, and it flourished into a
beautiful mini spiked spud, tangier but still sweet.
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