The Banana

So I am meant to be fed to the monkey, 

Wail till you have an encounter with my peel, 

Without the night, stars you shall see, 

For still life I join hands with friend apple, 

Different shapes of me decorate a cocktail 

I lie on the table as the knife slices me open, 

An incision in my centre, split into pieces, 

My seed in you sprout a plant 

The likes of which you have to see to believe, 

They should call you sprout a plant 

I make ‘shakes’ about the reference 

What you treasure to eat, 

Out of which you should not make mincemeat