The waves come tumbling, hiss and roar,
the southwest wind begins its blow.
The old grey fisherman on the shore
stares at each billow
and asks once more,

“Tell me, which one’s Joe?”

The lettuces stand in rows quite straight,
crinkled and crisp and ready to eat.
The gardener’s wife comes with knife and plate,

“I wonder which one’s Pete?”

The autumn gale is sharp but brief;
strips the branches of the tree.
From each dancing, falling leaf,
comes rustling whisper,

“This one’s ME!”