People talk of lovely gardens,

how they love to grow such flowers;

shaded there by trembling aspens

in the brightly coloured bowers.

 

Days and days they spend there working,

weeding, feeding, spraying, pruning,

spring and summer, never shirking,

manicuring and fine-tuning.

 

I don’t think that I could join them,

that's a chore I’d long lament;

such a garden I’d condemn

to three parts sand and one cement.