We’ll fathom what becomes of us
By tossing some asparagus;
Examine it; determine, thus,
The path we’re bound to take.
A path we know; we need no scouts!
We know it well; we have no doubts!
We heard it from the Brussels sprouts,
The choices we must make.

The cabbages and collard greens,
The lettuces and lima beans,
They all know what “cold reading” means
And swear it isn’t so!
The spinach, sprouts, and Russian kale
Have told us it’s to no avail
There is no future that’s for sale
In plants that you might grow!

The vegetable predictions fly—
Though roots and fruits won’t tell me why,
While tasty tubers try and try
To tell us what they know—
They want me, though, to part with gold
For goods that might be bought or sold
And all the while it all grows old
With science as our foe.

Kylie reports on a psychic with a brand new hook–she reads asparagus.

Which makes sense, actually. Well, as much sense as any other psychic schtick. And I’ll take the word of a vegetable over John Edward any day. But I don’t think I need the psychic to help me interpret. If I get my hands on some nice fresh asparagus, I can be pretty certain about at least one aspect of my near future.

Nom, nom.