Pits Stop Poem by Ima Ryma

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.