Pits Stop
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On a plate we three peaches be,
Await coming under the knife,
Signaling an end of journey
Trav'ling from our tree of life.
We got picked, in a basket thrown,
Put on a truck, off to a store.
Our destiny was unknown.
Fingers handled us o'er and o'er.
At last some fingers picked us up,
Into a bag, then off we went.
And ended up on this plate, yup,
Our future seems evident.
But no doubt we will be yummy,
Heading down to someone's tummy.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş