Grandpa’s dilemma

Grandpa’s a gem in the garden, tending his sprouts and his peas,
Tomatoes and onions and cabbage, his ‘caulies’ and his broccoli’s.
I’ve seen plenty of gardens, many full of bountiful greens,
But none the standard of grandpa’s, with his chili’s ‘n chocko’s n’ beans.

So I believed my dear grandpa was blessed with the very best in green thumbs
By his artichokes, pumpkin and corn and his wonderful red capsicums.
One day I mentioned to grandpa “Your garden’s as good as can be”.
Then I asked him “How does it grow?” This is how he answered me.

“I ‘foller’ chooks, horses n’ cows with a big shovel an’ ‘barra’,
Puttin’ load after load of manure on silver beet, spinach and ‘marra”.
”Manure!” said I “Loads of manure! That really makes plenty of sense”.
Then the old ‘biddy’ from next door stuck her head over the fence.

“I’ve been listening you know, and I think your language belongs in the sewer.
The word that you should use is fertiliser, and certainly not manure!”
I put me hands over me ears, expecting grandpa to ‘explete’
With a barrage of verbal manure on zucchini’s and over red beet.

But before grandpa could answer, grandma called out with a plea.
“What in the world are you saying Madge. You just listen to me.
I’ve cajoled and pleaded and prayed, I’m telling you there’s nothing truer.
It’s taken me ‘round forty years just to get him to call it manure!!”.

 

Poem courtesy of liarbird