Poetry: Picked Last

I was a red mango
Growing on the last tree
On this family farm
In Jamaica

Nobody bothers
To ring on my doors
To know my unique
Talent and sweet hospitality

A mango degree I have sir
What a beautiful tropical qualification

But the tractors work on time management
Round feet and round brains I call them
They dish out soot when they pass me
What a fart if that was me I would be in the bin