Strawberries

(I got the ide for this fictional poem from a cartoon in a magazine.) People pick strawberries from my field for two dollars a pound. Since you've been here, my number of strawberries have gone down. You put some of the strawberries you pick in your baskets but you eat some when I don't look. You're going to send me to the poorhouse because you're a crook. I don't like people like you because you're dishonest and you're a dirty rat. You have a big strawberry stain around your mouth and I'm charging you an extra ten bucks for that.