Don't shave your bush,
your fat hairy bush,
your thick matted bush of twine.
Don't mow your lawn,
of 70s ****,
your afro of ***** sunshine.

Your hedge of rough stems.
of tangled tough vines,
your tight web of spider like lines.
Its secret sunk well;
I delight in to smell,
and careful, my fingers might find.

To lap at its stream.
To eat of its fruit.
To climb through its branches
like a snug fitting boot.

Don't shave it I plead,
until it grows like a ****.
Until it grows, until it flows,
until it blooms like a rose.
Until who knows, I've planted
my seed.

Don't shave your bush,
your wonderful wild bush.
I thrill to search your garden.