In a garden never weeded nor pruned or given care,
In a bed that's poorly seeded where watering is rare.
The fruit can never sweeten from a root that's hardly grown
And the gardener will be reaping a sorry seed that's sown.

Morning Glory's glory will never reach their peak.
Chysanimum has a story but will never learn to speak.
Nothing left of cherries except the dreaded pits
If the Bachelor Button marries, Stephanotis calls it quits.

The bees will make their honey from someone else's bloom
The Babies Breath will be in another garden's womb.
Her rose will be a wilting red, the gladiola, sad.
Tulip bulbs grow from this bed, but they will grow up bad.

Daisies won't last till May, the Sunflowers won't shine.
The Heather smells alot like hay, the grapes make sour wine.
The Cylamen are little boys who cry at every turn
And don't forget a garden's joys are something you must earn.

The Dandelion will lose it's roar, the Foxglove needs a hand
Every bit of clovers poor, a vined Trumpet leaves the band.
In a garden that's not weeded butterflies won't flit
And the only flower seeded is a blooming idiot.

10/25/2001

Posted on 10/25/2001
Copyright © 2025 Mary Ellen Smith