I grow on branches and come in red or green, I’m crisp when fresh and sweet when eaten. I have a core but no heart, And my name once tempted knowledge at the start.

I'm heard when fear makes lesser people flee, that others would condemn with mockery. A soldier shot to fame by cooking me, as did a sailor fond of greenery.

Rarely abandoned yet left behind, a clearing in the woods of time. A staple of a buried find, Languishing in dirt and grime.

I am the ancient wages of the soldiers march, The white rot of iron and the crumbling of the arch, I am the tears of the earth left behind by the tide, Where the thirsty find death with water on every side.

This man has the style of Lorax. He spoke of the Abyss, of will to power and announced God is dead Good luck spelling his name correctly on the first try