Seeder my foot! Your crop? Since when? You too a seed the Great Planter cast. You fell in rich soil and after a gestation of 9 months out you shot from the earth straighter than bullets but oh my! So arrogant, so self-righteous I almost wish you’d been thrown to the side so you’d know how it feels to be different but still part of the crowd. As for me, Sweet Corn, I fell on bare butt-naked rock and it crippled my gait—don’t laugh—we’re all good seed the Great Planter cast. I grew queer but gay and I laughed and I cried oblivious to the evil eye following me around. Bite me if what I say is making you sound paranoid in retrospect.
Planter my butt, you squeezed it last night was you when the lights were out. Mistaken identity was the excuse you gave the morning after when you woke up in my bed. My bed, my silks, my scent is masculinity doused in feminine whiffs; blind beggars would say it is a he-she begrudgingly sharing limited body space. But even they would know it’s I and not some cheap whore masquerading for a cheap kiss-kiss bang-bang. Planter you say, standing firm against moral decay, yet you share my bed and softly moan as I give you head twice weekly. Matter of fact today’s the day you pay me a discreet visit because your wife is away. Eagerly you stray without a moment’s delay then roundabout and say we’re monsters at bay. Mschewwww! Your wife’s not a fool. She smells me on you but what can she do. She’s so confused by the erratic things you do. You love her? You don’t? Please make up your mind. One moment you’re hot and you ravish her with everything you’ve got. Then all of a sudden you’re a frozen icicle stabbing her privates in heaves and ho’s. Kill her already! For me I am ready. I will welcome you with open arms. Such is the plant you’ve grown into, always ready to supplant the Great Planter if opportunity knocks.
By day you campaign ‘To Hell with the Gays! We Lynch Them I Say!’ You publish their faces in tabloids inciting mobs to hunt them like dogs. You drive them to morgues in body bags on your way to Nakumatt to pick up grocery bags. So ironic that in the dead of the night your wife she sneaks up on you test-driving her lingerie. With make-up in place you cartwheel and purr and catwalk with grace in your abandoned garage.
I harvest bitter fruit from your ceaseless foray. Why me? We were both good seed the Great Planter cast. Sodom and Gomorrah is burning to the ground and I am trapped in its walls. I am suffocating in this hell-hole, please could you lend me a hand? Please could we just talk? I am not one for brawls. I am not in the mood for trifling discourse. My granary is aflame, my job is bust, my family is gone, seduced by your silent evil. At least leave me a rope so I can…
Strangle you when I see you with your wife and children laughing, laughing, after laying waste to my happiness, my home, my family. I WILL MAKE YOU PAY!
NO! NO! THAT WOULDN’T BE ME.  I am Sweet Corn with a melting of butter on top. Sweet Corn, a pleasure not a bother for all parties concerned. Please keep that in mind.
Just for the record, I will not eat your children or drive them astray. I will not rape your children, I am not that insane. I will not erode your morals, you beat me to that. Only God can judge and His love is this large!