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.
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