Only an Onion!

Ah. sobbing reader, “sufficient unto the dazed is the upheavel thereof,” so why worry about such April-foolishness. In the words of that grand old Spanish sera-grenade or tear-bomb entitled, Men of Garlic:

Gather your onions while you may,
Before they wither and fade away;
For even onions—true till death—
Leave naught but a ripe and flagrant breath;
A lingering odour, thick and warm,
As strong as a dipper of chloroForm:
Wot not if Easter is March or May,
But gather your onions day by day.

Strictly speaking, dear reader, an onion speaks for itself; it possesses a powerful backwash—not the species of acrobatical problem-play you stage in the bath with a young yard-broom, in the last act of which you have to be untied by the plumber and his offsider—but a backwash similar to that produced by the ragged edges of the ocean slopping over the earth, and then getting the wind up and rushing back into the briny.