But not right to the roots!

At last, I have discarded rotten fruit.
They say it’s hard, but I must disagree
Why! Old potatoes growing long white roots!

The old wives attempted myself to recruit
They say we spar but I do what suits me
At last, I have discarded all his loot

I rather fancied hunting Dad’s black boot.
They say aha but would you come to see
My cold relations wearing birthday suits!

I found poor Sylvia wrapped in winding sheets
Her Daddy barred her dying in his shoe.
She won the Prize but lost her children sweet

Some women say they  just desire a  brute.
Love is tardy when the wife is blue
If only she’d  turned down his  wedding suite

Love is hard but no worse than the flu
Life on guard is tense   but very now
Oh blast, I have discarded  the wrong lout
His hair was dyed but not right to the roots!