Garden Poem

This jolly little ditty comes with a language warning, although the word in question seems to be almost de rigeur these days, and I included it largely for the alliteration.

My garden always looks
a little tired and sad,
full of confused plants
that wonder what they’re here for,
and shoot up in one place
but not where they’re wanted,
dying instantly,
or slowly, painfully
as they stand around, disfigured,
waiting for the end,
the inevitable exit,
via the compost bin,
while randy snails,
with raging appetites,
feast, then fuck
with wild abandon,
spreading their slimy offspring,
then pausing
to eat some more.

Linda Rushby 13 June 2022