Journal of a Spaced-Out Brain

Picking Fruit

A single lady knows what she needs,
She searches for fruit among the weeds,
Judging by eye, inspection proceeds.

The sightly get a rap, tap, and slap,
Ones that fall flat are treated like scrap,
Her skills make unclear choices a snap.

Her knife slices open the tough rind,
The disemboweled flesh she hopes to find,
As sweet and fresh as she had in mind.