I walk around my village
With my fruit picker,
When the sky begins to darken
And I see the street lamp flicker.
I make my way to my neighbour’s orchard
Where I hope to find an apple.
I pass the church, the pub, the school
And the graveyard of the old chapel.
I reach the wall that surrounds the trees,
It’s only as high as my waist.
I spy several ripe, crunchy apples inside
And just can’t wait to have a taste!
I whip out my handy fruit picker
And lean precariously over the wall.
Flick, flick goes my wrist,
I’m a bit off balance, I hope I don’t fall!
I’m slower than usual tonight,
I need to pick quicker, quicker.
I don’t want to have to resort to
Buying even one with a supermarket sticker!
I actually have an orchard of my own,
But all the fruit is hard and bitter.
The skins on these are irresistably crisp
Whereas on mine they are a lot thicker.
Pick, pick, pick
That should do the trick!
My fruit picker’s full the the brim,
No more need for me to nick, nick!
I tip the contents inside
My basket made of wicker,
Which I cover with a big tea towel
To also hide my fruit picker.
