Jan Brzechwa "On the stall"

At the stall on market day
Such are the conversations you hear:

"Perhaps you will lean on me,
The Lord so fades, pa­nie ko­prze.”

"Well, no wonder, my chives,
I've been here since Tuesday!”

Rzecze na to kalarepka:
"Look at the turnip - it's sturdy!”

Pea on the tummy pats the turnip:
"How are you, rze­po? Co­raz le­piej?”

„Dzię­ki, dzię­ki, pa­nie gro­chu,
It's like living a little bit.

But parsley - this is worse:
Bla­da, chu­da, can not sleep. "

„A to fe­ler” –

Wes­tchnął se­ler.

Burak stroni of onions,
And the onion felt close to him:

"My Buraku, my red,
Wouldn't you like such a wife??”

Bu­rak tyl­ko nos za­ty­ka:
“Come on, madam, leave sooner,

I want a beetroot wife,
Because in front of you they all cry. "

„A to fe­ler” –
Wes­tchnął se­ler.

Suddenly the bean's voice is heard:
"Where are you going up here??!”

"Don't be so great to me" -
Brussels sprouts are the same.

„Wi­dzie­li­ście, what blood!” –
The carrot is scratched.

“Let the cabbage judge us!”
„Co, ka­pu­sta?! Gło­wa pu­sta?!”

A ka­pu­sta rze­cze smut­nie:
„Moi dro­dzy, why the quarrels,

Why your stupid quarrels,
We're going to die in the soup anyway!”

„A to fe­ler” –
Wes­tchnął se­ler.