Jelly jar delight
Sate your palette break of day
Cookout or a lunch array
On slice of loaf or parked just on a roll
Meadow: there it grows
Snatched from trees 'fore the bitter snows
Stacked aglaze in the raffish rows
In cellars where the jars of mason stand

How this fruit to brand?
What's it right i-den-ti-ty?
I'm kind of baffled by their pear-ity
And how they're kind of fuzzily
Until they freshen and increase on bough
Mature they glisten now

Hairy hairy fright?
Pomade now's from fruitly leas
Hurl those seeds in violent squeeze
Construct from quinces nice-y mousse for 'do'
Disarranging view:
Morning yields a rumpled mane
Coiffured tresses style reclaimed
Hair smoothed beneath the product's salving strands

Though you are not bland
Multiple your uses be
And still I'm puzzled by your fam-i-ly
Have you implied a rose to be?
They are not peaches, nor are apples now
We like them anyhow

Poor oblong' cydonia!
You've still enough to do:
When Atalanta paused, mid-flight
For some race-bound quince delight
And Parris gave his Aphrodit' some too
But I could have told you quinces
In verse were ever leant to stun parodi-ful a view

Hearty fruit delight
Argentina's got a haul
Uruguay, from trees they fall
Wish I could grow in States sans fireblight, drat
And the Owl and Pussycat
In Ed Lear's poem, dined 'neath the moon
Then gobbled quince with runc'ble spoon
My! Such a tidbit, son, you may not know

Hindenburg, afloat
Flew through sky with this fruit, see
Then fire and stuff: "Oh, the quince-manity!"
Quince now, not trans-atlantic, be
I bet you're wishin' we this quince thing still
Perhaps you've had your fill...