The garden's pubes have wilted in the heat,
Flopped over, quite collapsed and flat,
They're flaccid, lying useless in defeat.
I take the turgid, phallic hose and sprinkle them
Hoping they will rise up, once again look neat.
I'm sure they will, yet now I think of them like that
My filthy mind sees stink horns lurking underneath,
The hard, white, leather balls of jellied slime,
Which burst apart and thrust their polystyrene willies in the air,
Each bell end sporting its white hat.
As a child I'd see them all the time,
In innocence thought nothing of their looks,
I never see them now, and do not care,
For they belong to childhood's beech woods and to fungus books.
And this luxuriant, deep bronze, pubic hair,
Belongs to well kept gardens and grown ups.
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