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Peach State Runs out of Peaches

Just in from Georgia, where the news does depress,
A crisis so dire, even the South’s in distress.
From peaches, my friends, does this crisis arise,
Who knew that a fruit could cause such demise?

First came the downpour, then came the hail,
Affecting each orchard, each peachy detail.
The trees so confused, in winter or spring?
To blossom or not, a very tough thing.

The peach, that sweet symbol of Georgia’s fair land,
Reduced to a pitiful, soggy demand.
The juice and the cobbler, the pie and the jam,
All gone in a second, like an Instagram scam.

They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,
But what to do when peaches have strayed?
Georgia’s response, though it seems rather silly,
Is hosting a festival for the lowly dilly dilly.

This great Peach State, once ripe and profound,
Is now the Pickle State, the change does confound.
Cucumbers in brine, a sight to behold,
Replacing peaches, or so we’re told.

Folks from Atlanta to old Savannah town,
Are trading their smiles for a vinegary frown.
But it’s the new normal, the current state,
Dill over peach in the Peach… er, Pickle State.

And so my dear friends, as the South learns to cope,
Let’s trade in our peaches for pickles and hope.
That next year’s harvest will be sweeter and bright,
‘Til then it’s pickles we reach for each night.

The irony’s ripe, and one thing is clear,
Mother Nature, this year, isn’t a peach, dear.
We wait and we watch for that juicy delight,
In the meantime, pass the pickles, right?

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