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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 4, Issue 12 (April 1, 1930)

Only an Onion!

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.