I think that I shall never scan a
Painting, worth half a banana.

A yellow fruit that grows from ground,
And by the hand of time, is browned;

Belov’d by human, rat, and ape,
Affixed to wall by sellotape;

High on wall, yet low in calorie,
Easy peel, yet posh art gallery;

A fruit who doesn’t put on airs,
while housed above the crystal stairs;

Painters and poets chase rare arcana,
But who, on earth, can explain the banana.