The Weeds

Weeds have come, weeds have come
It's time to get to work
With shovel, spade, and sweaty brow
And my garden fork

Weeds are going, weeds are going
Just mud, and grass, and joy
Now to rest & solace
Alas these weeds have a ploy

Weeds are waiting, weeds are waiting
The weeds are bloody back
It seems I must watch all the time
I must not have the knack

Weeds they grow, weeds they grow
As if I had done naught
What is the point of all this toil
My lingering thought

By Pete Scopes