Sense Sonnet - Tickler

Black Olives Matter

Black olives hanging on a tree
Began to fall off one by one.
Ripened as each needed to be,
Hanging out on the tree was done.
All fell close by upon the ground,
But one began to roll away.
A black olive quite fat and round
Rolled o'er a cliff to the dismay
Of all the rest, but what to do.
This opened up a can of woe
For the black olives, sad but true.
'Twas really the pits - doncha know!

Afraid there was no help to give,
But then heard a faint cry, "Olive."