The Weed


There is a weed growing in my garden.
I’d like it gone, but it’s a hard ‘un.
Yes, I’d truly like to drag it out.
But staying there is what it’s about.

I grab it by the throat and heave,
But it’s got a toughness you won’t believe.
A million years have given it scope,
To develop a stem like a piece of rope.

Such a tug-o-war is beyond a joke.
That weed’s got roots like a bloomin’ oak.
I use my brawn, but it succeeds
In a victory for all kin weeds.

With instructions on a packet to be my guide
I dosed it up with cyanide,
But the weed just absorbed it in its core,
Gave a kind of floral burp and grew some more.

I’ve used my shears to cut its stem.
It has good cause to remember them.
I’ve plucked its foliage and stamped it flat
Someone normal can’t do much more than that.

I know just how the cursed things made,
I’ve dug down deep with trowel and spade.
I’ve reeked my wrath and destroyed its soul,
But there’s always a piece left at the bottom of the hole.

And then the garden looks so neat
With the weed being vanquished in defeat.
But at the weekend when I make a tour,
That weed as grown again, once more.

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