Yanking out Mandrakes

I pull ‘em out whole, like carrots.
I pull ‘em out raw and shrieking.
I’m kidding. They don’t really scream.

They just pop out long and scraggly,
Like human figures, lyric poems,
But more weirdly crooked, like me.

I hardly do any chopping.
I prefer not to cook at all.
I have an old tobacco shed.

They dry nicely in dusty rows.
Someday, someone will do magic,
Mashing to powder what remains.