Between you and I, two things are hard. The first? Lignified cell walls in my front yard. My vessels are bursting—traechids in fear of cavitation. I’ll squeeze that air bubble out, ending the frustration.
I’m really not picky; I’ll take thick or thin. As long as your vascular cambium isn’t worn in. If your phloem is ruptured, I’ll sense you’re not pure. That another lucky man gave you a sexual cure.
But wait, what’s your age—swear under oath. If you lie, I’ll just check out your secondary growth. Your rings tell no lie, your heartwood is showing. Why are they so thin? Have you had trouble growing?
Oh how I wish I were mycorrhizae, deep in your roots Extending my mycelium into your shoots. With a large surface area, I’ll extract all your love. Exchanging phosphorus for a date, or carbs from above.
But I want you to know that I’ve come out as bi Monocots and dicots—both make me feel high. I can dig parallel venation or a fibrous root, Or seeds or flowers or a sclereid-ridden fruit.
Thank God for collenchyma; you’re able to flex Bend forward and backward, concave or convex. I’ll massage your trichomes and make you close up tight I’ll give you my nitrogen, I’ll make this feel right. But what do I do? I’m in such a rut. I’ve fallen in love with a plant, am I a slut? Is this incest, voyeurism, or some other weird feeling? I’m just a guy who needs some parenchyma healing.