Downhill Runpicked

Sloppy sweet sugar corn ears Dripping buttery syrupy tears Too hot to hold without end pins The memories linger for years Why did the taste of stolen corn Always seem better at night After filling the finger spaces of Both hands with the black tassels Of at least three ears each Two dozen ears at a dead run One can but wonder why They use picking machines Corn racing could well be an Olympic sport Or at least an annual holiday event What other harvest offers such fun