The Poetry of a Can of Peas

No apple trees or serene seas
I’d rather write of cans of peas.
It’s poetry of potency
despite your most unhappy pleas.

And, I don’t mean pea soup at all
nor snap nor snow nor teamed in rice.
No black-eyed peas nor peas puréed
but English peas so sweet and nice.

This isn’t Popeye’s Swee'Pea kid
nor sweet peas that aren’t peas at all
nor PhospoEthanolAmine
nor Poet Erwin Anderall,

an English poet who once wrote
“I think that I shall never sneeze
a snootful lovelier than peas
for if I did, would you say, ‘Geez’?

This isn’t pea mash, mush or cream
for toothless elderly to gum
nor pea pod wine nor princess pea
nor peas be with you my young chum

nor leaning tower of peasa, no,
nor pease of porridge hot or cold
nor “pea of being inside the
green pod of time” so I’ve been told.

Be sure you do recycle, please. 
I use a pet, my goat for these.
It eats the cans with eager ease
so I can eat my peas in peace.