Mary Mary
Mary, Mary how contrary
why does your garden grow?
with old tin cans and frying pans
and muddy boots all in a row.
Car piled high with spider's webs
Their spindly smiles, their lovely legs.
Come and say 'Good mourn ye all'
'We live here now and have a ball'
Inside your hut a homeless man.
You gave some tea and made a plan,
To wash his socks so he could go
And get a job and flat and grass to mow
Golden Wonder, Blenheim Blush
A tattie feast chipped, mashed and mushed.
A field of spuds your Mam would cook,
You now don't need your gardening book.
Pippin, gala, Brae burn and Cox,
Fat round red spheres their crunchy Hocks,
Harvest in a late September
To make the wine for next November
Seasons come as turning bicycles
Protecting flowers from biting icicles.
Feeding plants and changing hedges,
Thick hanging blooms, fruits and veges.
Mary, Mary not contrary,
I know how your garden grows.
With careful plans and gardening hands
and many years in the Know.
Copyright © Ann Kershaw | Year Posted 2019
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