Black Olives Matter Poem by Ima Ryma

Black olives hanging on a tree
Began to fall off one by one.
Ripened as each needed to be,
Hanging out on a tree was done.
All fell close by upon the ground,
But one began to roll away.
A black olive quite fat and round
Rolled o'er a cliff, to the dismay
Of all the rest, but what to do!
This opened up a can of woe
For the black olives, sad but true.
'Twas really the pits - doncha know!

Afraid there was no help to give,
But then heard a faint cry, 'Olive.'