Juicin’ fruits, but not including prunes,
whose pits for my juicer would spell doom.
Sometimes there’s splatter, and my face gets wettened.
But I don’t mind because on that I’d reckoned.
I’ll taste results and be carefree; juice will be
moving down my gullet’s avenue.
Smoothies ain’t the same and just won’t do.

There are lots of fruits at the grocery;
the folks there are so happy to see me.
They know I aim to make a liquid treat.
Much juicing will occur inside the room
called the kitchen, where I’m schvitzin’ soon—
then liquid flows.

I just love to spend every day this way;
I’m gonna quaff fruitarien parfaits.
It’s at the grocer’s much money I pay.
Wife sure is vexed at me—I drain our treasury
juicin’—so much that bankruptcy looms.
Leavin’ is the wife, calling me “goon.”
So, off she goes,
movin’ in with her ma.