Write a four line poem about: the pest.
This week we brought approximately 300 pounds of cherries to the farmers market, figuring an extra 100 pounds over last week combined with more vendors having them would work out all right. Selling out so early last week was hard, knowing that we could have definitely sold a whole lot more.
So instead of running out just before 11 (like we did last Saturday), we sold out shortly after noon. I reckon at most we could have sold another crate's worth (20 pounds or so) today, so that was a definite improvement.
People really go bananas over fresh cherries here.
Not that I blame them.
Overhead or underfoot,
Always in the damned way;
My patience is waning,
Gone with one last delay.