My mothers always asking me to **** her garden.
Always nagging me about the garden.
I shrug and moan but always fold.
I always end up weeding the garden.

The twisted vine spread all about.
Hot sun beating down on my brow.
Every root I pull pulls back somehow.

The dirt on my gloves caked and cold.
The sweat tortures me so.
This garden is my enemy now.

I plot against it in my sleep.
Thinking of ways to end my grief.
Poison? Maybe, I don’t know!

I hate this garden but I will conquer it!
I will tear it apart untill it’s clean.
Free from green death.
Over bearing shrubs!

My mother’s always asking me to **** her garden.
And somehow I always do.
Always out in the lifeless heat.
Always out on my feet.

Goodbye garden, see you next season.
The war will begin again.
The nagging.
The garden.