Tough job - A Poem

Sandra took a job as a psychic medium.
Her specialty was speaking to the deceased spirits of relatives of pieces of fruit. 
It was a tough job. 

Typical reading:
'Alright so let's get started here, I am feeling the letter g..., um, wait, oh holy hell, um, so.... not sure how to say this, but I'm getting, something, well, ok, it's a hundred and fifteen generations of your family, many, many thousands of them, they were all picked alive... then cut up into cubes, or ground into liquid, gnawed on by teeth, kept in cups with *gulp apples, or jammed into marmalades then jammed into mouths, before being confined to stomach innards, then broken down by stomach acid, and stripped for a variety of bodily uses, none of which seemed in any fun, exciting or even pleasant, at least for oranges, oh oh, and your grandma says hi'.

It was not enjoyable news to give.
I mean who wants to hear from grandma?
No one. 
You're talking to the dead for Christ's sake, you can't bring up the cute girl from the branch on the wrong side of the trunk, who committed suicide after her father forbid you from being together? 
Oh man, I remember her, her innards were jui...CY.

Still she needed the cash so she decided to stick with it. 
That's until she discovered the worst thing of all.
The fruit NEVER fucking paid their bills on time. 
Selfish bastards. 
Oh and deceased honey-dew melons would often be present and yet be too shy to share.
It really was a shitty job. 
Sandra now thinks of it as her third worst ever! 
But she did develop a sick joy for going fruit picking.
And new hobbies are always fun. 

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