Sense Sonnet - Pumper

 Pits Stop

On a plate we three peaches be,

Await coming under the knife,

Signaling an end  of journey

Trav'ling from our tree of life.

We got picked, in a basket thrown,

Put on a truck, off to a store.

Our destiny was unknown.

Fingers handled us o'er and o'er.

At last some fingers picked us up,

Into a bag, then off we went.

And ended up on this plate, yup,

Our future seems evident.

But no doubt we will be yummy,

Heading down to someone's tummy.