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. 🍎🍐🍓
