This turnip with no name

Appeared just the same

As the others in this field of shoots

But under the surface,

Hidden and nervous,

His was not like normal roots.

For rather than sit there,

As he grew aware,

He constantly wiggled and squirmed.

And jittery turnips

Become lonely hermits...

As his treatment from others confirmed.

When harvest day came,

His feelings of shame

Were worser than they'd ever been.

The folks found him odd

When they shook off the sod

And he made such a horrible din!

While the others were packed

In a crate, neatly stacked,

Then shipped off to market as dead,

The wife of the farmer,

Fearing bad Karma,

Adopted and christened him, "Fred."