Ode to Weeds
Oh Clover, what’s the meaning of life?
Why so many weeds elude this knife?
Maybe they want to live forever after,
they want to climb this keen rafter.
Oh my dear bindweed,
why don’t you grow in mead?
If your desire
is to find your own bevy,
you’ll have to pay a small levy:
leave this soil with your roots
and abandon your seeds to the wind.
Now you’re dead, poor earth’s slave,
and your flower lies on this green grave.