An Oushak on the Comfrey Bed.

It sprouts now in its comfy bed
Of moist and worm filled soil,
Under its blanket, a warm Oushak rug:
The comfrey in the comfrey bed.
And yet it sprouts in vain,
And soon it will be dead.
In smothering darkness and growing pain
It will seek for the light
In the warmth and rain,
But etiolation and death wait instead,
For the comfrey in the comfrey bed.
Because I'm a sadist as gardeners are
And I like to play God,
And when viewed from afar
An old Oushak rug
With its faded shades of blue and red,
And green and orange and gold
Is a pleasant sight to behold,
As it suffocates baby comfrey
In its comfy comfrey bed.