Pickled plums and pickled pears,

I seem to have lost my carrying wares.

From my satchel I carried, on shoulder with strap,

I seem to have lost, even my map.

But my compass stays steady, it arm points North,

I peered through its sights and plotted a course.

Through valleys and glens, spurs and ridge,

To a land far and distant, where lost items live.

I strode into a city, alive with lost wares,

I picked a red apple and approached two mares.

“My dear madam horses,” I was quick to ask,

“Have you seen my pickled items, that I kept in a glass?”

They laughed uncontrollably and then they both spoke,

“For what you are asking, must be a joke,

Men come here looking, from oceans to spots,

Our largest department is The Ministry of Socks.

But your pickled fruit, we each ate three,

We really enjoyed your pickle recipe.”

The mares really burned me, my eyes seeing red,

So I gathered the horses, and pickle them instead.