Portobello

There's a Portobello mushroom in my fridge, sitting still.
It had a little brother, but I ate it off the grill.

Days have passed and I don't think it's fresh,
I fear it's suffering from decomposed flesh.

But I can't seem to throw it away.
"If I didn't eat it yesterday, maybe I will today!"

I had big plans for the little fellow.
Of sandwiches and salads with green and red and yellow.

He is lonely, sitting by itself.
Made fun of by the carrots and the spices on the shelf.

We all know the big mushroom with earthy taste,
Will soon have to go to waste.

So long Portobello! We say goodbye.
Look away, don't see me cry.