THE FURY OF THE GARDEN

[As it really is]

Oh, the fury of the garden, when the soil is solid clay,
And today I watch a-dying all I planted yesterday.
When my back is full of twinges and my nails are full of dirt,
And the fence-wire, all unravelled, rips the sleeve from out my shirt.
When my plot's too wide and weedy and my path's too strait and narrow,
And I frequently fall off it as I wheel my weighty barrow.
When the woodworm's got my besom and the mower's got no oil,
And the happy, fertile aphis keeps his lovelife on the boil.
When the hedges won't stop growing and the grass won't even start
Through the daisies, moss and plantain which are my lawn's greater part.
When comes mellow Autumn and the layered leaves lie rotting,
And the clever chaps on telly scare me with systemic plotting.
Then I gaze up to my Maker, for this prayer I ask His pardon:
"Dear Lord, no more - I'll CONCRETE O'ER the fury of my garden".
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