Feel The Beet

Beware the vulgar beetroot.

Don't let her bedazzle you with her wily stems of colour. She lines her fiendish traps with sugar, and guilds them with mangold. She spends her lazy days in front of her icy mirrors preening her soiled roots and soaking herself in vast vats of bulls' blood in order to keep her scaly flesh moistened. She keeps her albino children locked away underground, their screams of disinterest haunt her foetid dreams; it is her one secret shame.

Her Greek cousin, Wurzel, will entice you with song into consuming vast quantities of forbidden garlic. Only then will she pounce, draining you of all your precious turnip blood, leaving you in a pool of your own feet. All you can do is watch her slither away, as everything fades to red, and off in the distance the only sound you can hear is a self-satisfied, golden burp.