Ode to a veggie patch in its death throes

Out in the garden, my basil turns black
The tomatoes are rotting, the Swiss chard is slack.
The pumpkins are turning, the zucchini is toast,
The pattypans are puckered! But what bothers me most?

These deaths of brave veggies, over which I have slaved!
I picked them, I shared them, and everyone raved.
My dear little cukes, all prickly and green,
My sexy soft eggplants with appendages obscene.

The wee tasty scallions that made my breath smell,
The garlic and onions caused halitosis as well.
The juice-leaking beets with their bug-ridden leaves,
The multi-hued carrots that the dogs always thieved.

The burgundy beans and the freaky kohlrabi
(Well wasn't that silly! What rhymes with "kohlrabi?")
The poopy broc-CO-li that smells like bad feet,
The fat tomatillos with the Mexican beat. (What? It rhymes!)

Tomorrow they'll die when the temperature hits zero. (Celsius, for you Yanks! 32F)
There's no way to save them; I ain't no veg hero.
And so I must witness their horrific demise.
They'll turn gloopy and icky as they scream their good-byes.

Yes the garden is finished and winter is nigh.
Crap tomatoes and 'tatoes I'll soon have to buy.
It's tragic, it's awful, it makes my heart hurt,
to think of my darlings lying dead in the dirt.

Yet it's not all misery, sadness and woe,
crying and screeching and hurling my hoe.
For next year I'm hopin' to have in my employ
A deliciously hunky Colin Firth SHED BOY!

Thank you. Thank you very much! No poets were harmed in the making of this ode.

Yes, he's turning over in his grave...