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.