STRAWBERRY FIELDS

I KNOW MY WILD STRAWBERRY FIELDS AND MY STRAWBERRY FIELDS HAVE KNOWN ME TO CRAWL AMONG WILD, RED DOTS ON HANDS AND KNEES TO GARNISH ANOTHER YEAR'S PRODUCE WHICH OFTENTIMES RESTED IN A BED OF WATER UNABSORBED AFTER SPRING RAINS. BUT THE CROP - THOUGH MEAGER - WAS EXCELLENT IN A PUNGENT FLAVOR 'OUT OF THE DOMESTICATED WORLD' OF FRUIT. I PICKED OFF THOUSANDS OF STEMS WITH A TWEEZER, COOKED UP A FEW JAMS AND COBBLERS AND PLUNKED TINY FRUIT ONTO BOWLS OF CEREAL, BUT NEVER WAS GRACED WITH LEFTOVERS FOR THE MASTER VINTNER TO CREATE BOTTLES OF STRAWBERRY WINE. ALL THESE GOOD THINGS EVENTUALLY ENDED.

ENTER THE ALTERNATIVE, ROWS OF DOMESTICATED PLANTS. I GRANT THE 'WILD' FLAVOR WAS SACRIFICED, BUT MY INTENSIVE, BEGGARY LABOR CEASED. IN MY BEDS OF GROWING PLANTS, WEEDS REARED THEIR UGLY AND PROFUSE HEADS. THEY PROVIDED HOURS OF OUTDOOR, DOWN-TO-EARTH EXERCISE. PICKING THE FRUIT SIMPLY INVOLVED PLUCKING, LIFE-SIZED RED BALLS. POUNDS REPLACED OUNCES OF A HARVEST AND MULTIPLE CONTAINERS WERE STORED IN A FREEZER. I EVENTUALLY CLINKED MY GLASS TO A PARTNER'S GLASS OF STRAWBERRY WINE, LIKE A PLEASANT MUSIC TO MY MOUTH.
WHAT DID THE BEATLES KNOW ABOUT STRAWBERRY FIELDS?