[Julie Steiner]

I have worms; you've the Phoenix. The adjective scenic’s
applied more to you than to me. (What a bummer!)
I don’t attract dancers, and nobody answers
with “Compost!” when asked how to welcome midsummer.
I’m casteless, you’re Brahmin. We’ve nothing in common
except for our function: we deal with the dead.
Your role? The cremation of thick vegetation.
My purview’s digesting old garbage instead.

Oh, don’t be so modest! Your reign is the broadest:
you’ve colonised every bachelor’s flat.
The effortless ruler of crisper and cooler,
you clearly outrank me, considering that
you form undetected. I must be collected
and lit; you’re spontaneous, even if slow.
Your decomposition needs no one’s volition,
while mine needs a frustrated poet’s, you know.

(Any glaring Americanisms this time? Is "bummer" okay? I was proud of myself for changing "colonized" to "colonised" on my own.)

[Roger Slater]

Two good ones in a row.

Julie, Lucy's a sucker for those long tet lines with internal rhymes, so go ahead and start budgeting how you will spend the prize.

[FOsen]

A minor quibble, though, Julie - many compost heaps are full of castings. Brava!

Frank

[John Whitworth]

Yes, Julie gets my vote. Dammit!

[Julie Steiner]

Thanks, guys. Frank, I added some worms just for you.

[Ann Drysdale]

Julie - that's wonderful; it rots off in unexpected directions and made my day.

I get the suspicion that now and then Lucy mutters to herself "let's find something the buggers can't do" - and then you sock her in the eye with this one.

Hard luck, Lucy. Bummer, in fact!