poke salad

This is a poem I found on the net... Poke Salad Blues BY DON STINSON Two types of folks— Those who eat poke And those who won’t. A third I’ve heard of— City dudes and princesses Who don’t know poke from pot. My poor parents— “poor” is literal here, Not a bit sentimental— Rinsed and boiled that weed Once—twice—three times Purging the deep poisons Then served it up with eggs And crumbled bacon bits— My dad’d whistle “Dixie.” I went out this morning and gathered a hand full of new poke growing at the edge of the yard where the old neighbor pulled all the weeds. I brought them into the pot, boilt them for a while then threw them into the bacon grease to fry for a spell. Corn bread hot from the oven and poke salad reminder me of where I sprung but I have had to keep close to the pot the day long and two baths have been needed for the purge that I had. No more weed for me for a while.