From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 180-181.
THE APPLE CURE
To regulate the human gizzard
And all man’s frame from A to izzard,
The good red apple is a wizard.
When Mother Eva picked her lunch
I’ll say she had the proper hunch.
The one she ate she found a seed in,
And having sneaked it out of Eden,
She planted it and so, I wist,
Became the first pomologist,
And put one over on her pardner
Who thought himself the only gardener.
To eat each day a juicy pome
Will keep the doctor from your home,
So shed your nightshirt, rise betimes,
And pick yourself a Golden Grimes.
No more, I ween, will old Doc Green
Come ramping up in his machine
All set to amputate my spleen.
No more he’ll jab, with hand expert,
To find the spots he knows will hurt.
No longer overwork his brain
And all its fine ball-bearings strain,
Determining a diagnosis
[181]
Before he tells me what the dose is.
Instead of pills of varied size
I’m eating Winesaps, Yorks and Spies.
And you I hope will follow suit
And fill yourself with wholesome fruit.