Cherries.

Cherries.Just a pair of Cherries hanging on a tree,
They were out of reach for a small man like me.
So I took a pair of steps, sturdy, made of wood,
Then I got my Cherries, as I knew I would.

Along came the owner with a shotgun on his arm,
Taking his old cherries why I did not mean any harm.
I spat out the pips right at his very feet,
Now that is a man that I no longer want to meet.

He called me a thief, said, “I should be locked away,”
His was a nasty temper that’s all that I can say.
I turned around and quickly ran to the nearby road,
A man with a shotgun is not the person to goad.

He took aim and fired, pellets whistled past my ears,
The man with the shotgun is  another of my fears.
Now I buy my Cherries in a fruit and grocery shop,
This I can do safely without my having to hop.

If you too want Cherries, don’t steal them from a tree,
Or you too will have to run and hop just like little me.
Cherries are my favourites; I eat them every year,
When I honestly buy them I do not have to fear.

© Bernard Shaw