Johnny was an aphid,
he liked to hang around
with the rest of the guys in green.
Lost in the crowded silence,
staying safe in the shade beneath,
he would seldom be seen.

But now the year is turning,
spring stands aside for summer,
and the Man comes along.
Tidies away the deadwood,
admires the budding roses,
and sings some old song.

Above the larks are soaring,
sun shines in the sky where
some plane leaves a white paper trail.
Gardener takes his shovel,
removing the war-poisoned bodies
of slugs and shelled snails.

And Johnny stirs uneasy,
for him and the rest of the guys
there can be no reprieve.
Insecticide is painless,
and the last thing he sees through
the spray is a falling green leaf.

Johnny was an aphid,
now his body lies with all his
brothers upon the raked loam.
Man turns for the woodshed
Whistling a tune about
‘Johnny Comes Marching Home’.