Song of the Cynical Gardener

A garden is a loathsome thing,
Full of weeds and things that sting,
Where miniature monsters creep around,
And evil smelling ponds abound.
Tiresome blackbirds tittle-tattle,
In straggling bushes warblers prattle.
The sun shines bright and sears the skin
Sly dawn breaks with hellish din.
For peace of mind I’d cover my plot
With brick and block-the whole dammed lot!


Or, on reflection, maybe not.