The green fingered ones creak,
to sing their songs once more,
for unwanted weeds, who think they’re trees,
will no longer dwell on the floor.
Hands do bleed, when Holly attacks,
when nature tells it’s joke,
but with industrial strength, leaves won’t be kept,
as they silently cry in soak.
This old timey man vs flora match,
has to have a referee,
thus, when those in garden, to beg their pardon,
look up, toward, and see.
There it is, the foreman Robin,
it’s red-breast, a red card,
that is shown to both parties, who should be hearties,
ensuring the scene’s less hard.
So, the gardener sips, the garden blooms,
both to reimburse and think,
the Robin keenly awaits, for no more bates,
hoping that both can be in sync.
The trowel is downed, the leaves remain,
at least ‘til another day,
thanks to foreman Robin, who eased their sobbing,
that prolongs such decay.