In Kentish fields, where fruit trees bloom and grow,
The gypsy pickers toil from dawn till night,
Their nimble fingers plucking fruits aglow,
A bounteous harvest, sweet and ripe and bright.

With baskets full, they trudge along the rows,
Their laughter ringing through the orchard's air,
A hardy folk, who brave the sun and snows,
To earn their keep, with skill and strength and care.

Their wagons roll, from farm to farm they roam,
A wandering tribe, with tales and songs to share,
The fruit gardens of Kent, their transient home,
A place of labor, hope, and joy, and care.

So here's to gypsy pickers, brave and true,
Who bring us fruit, fresh as the morning dew. 🍎🍐🍓

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