...and another poem

Ok, only my most loyal readers will remember my last masterpiece about the red spider mite. It's just one of those things. You work on the land and you just feel one with nature, so you can't help but be inspired.

So today it happened again, as I was digging over a particularly weed infested bed the muse kissed me, or rather hit me over the back of the head with a large club (otherwise Susan would have complained anyway: "Who's that tart you've been canoodling with?") and here's the result:

The Root
Root, oh root within the earth,
of thou* a favour I'd like to ask,
To a weed, I know, thou wilst give birth,
Which leaves me with one cruel task.

To pull thou out by thy head,
To remove from my veg'tables thy threat
So why don't thou savest us both this arduous toil
And simply stay beneath the soil.

Footnotes for younger readers: In the olden** days people used to say thou instead of you and thy for your, which sounded more poetic, though knowst***. They also added _st to the 3rd person singular like the Germans (see German: du binst = thou arst).
**In the olden days they also said olden instead of old, not sure why. There used to be an insult directed at people who hadn't had a bath in a while (which apparently was quite common): "Thou olden swyne!" The original meaning of this phrase has been lost in the mists of sage... thyme! Sorry thyme, not sage.
***Thou knowst was a popular turn of phrase in the olden days.

I retain all copyrights to this poem for any reprinting or public recitals. Allright, Mr H. you may read it to Mrs. H. I had to recite it to Susan a few times, so I guess that means it's quite deep. Well it is about roots after all...

…and some poetry

One quick word in conclusion to the subject of pests. You’ve got to feel for the poor wee mites. I mean, they are just trying to live and procreate themselves. We just exterminate them, because they like the same things as us, and sometimes they are being bullied by other creatures too.

Working amongst all that nature you just sometimes can’t help being awed and inspired to become creative. So today, whilst peacefully listening to the drone of the petrol powered brush cutter, I’ve composed this poem about the red spider mite. It doesn’t actually affect us much, it likes greenhouses apparently.

The Spider Mite

There once was a little red spider mite,
Who spat at a spider out of spite.
The spider spat back, saying: “you little shite!
I’m a real spider, you’re just a mite.”