(We can't be good at everything, after all...
)
“The World’s Worst Gardener”. Yes, it’s justified.
That’s me alright. My Busy Lizzies died,
and they’re the
easiest thing to grow, I’m told.
I killed them; they weren’t even ten days old.
I pay a man to cut the lawn. It’s fine;
responsibility for plants is mine.
Poor plants! Yes, I can almost hear you groan.
“The World’s Worst Gardener” is how I’m known
among the neighbours, relatives and friends.
The list of my disasters never ends.
I used some ‘fertiliser’, from the shed,
except it was weed-killer. That rose bed,
like everything I touch, is now stone dead.
My husband is “The World’s Worst… ” (Number Two.)
Lay concrete
everywhere – that’s what he’d do!
But I, at least, attempt to grow some flowers,
and some of them have lived for several hours.
I
do forget to water things in pots,
and in this kind of weather they need lots,
of course. I find that pansies are forgiving…
I’ve got ten tubs of them; they’re all still living!
They let me know they’re thirsty, ’cos they droop,
but then they bounce back up again. I whoop
with joy at this, so they’re a nice safe bet.
I’m optimistic that there’s some hope YET
that I could lose that “World’s Worst” epithet.