Cursed weed, foul ditch-delivered spawn,
Most suited to the wasteland and the fire,
How come you here to wrap your tendrils round,
These flowers which are sweeter far than you?
Oh vain, insidious, brutish pestilence,
You have not place or right within my beds,
Your flowers do of beauty make mockery,
They wither at the slightest, gentlest touch.
No you are not a thing of beauty rare,
But rather just ensnaring, smothering thing,
That seeks to only spread it’s poison seed,
And crushes all beneath your weighty need.
Oh, stealer of the light from other flowers,
How should I now control your dreadful spread?
How must I, seeing you destroy all beauty,
Remove you from the world that is my beds?
But you are crafty in your thirst for conquest,
I cannot simply pluck your strangling stems,
Or dig to root you out from life giving soil,
For one piece, and like hydra up you spring.
So I will choose a path of true destruction,
And give fair warning unto you foul weed,
Spread all you like within the fragrant roses,
Of poison in return you need not fear.
No, rather I shall clip your paper flowers,
And watch them whither in the heat of sun,
To stop the spreading of your dung stained seed,
And take delight in knowing you’re sterile.
Though I may lose some precious, wanted flowers,
I shall see you dead and withered on the soil,
Burned out from all your selfish, questing effort,
To dominate a land you shall not own.
Oh, I shall have to work a thousand hours,
Clipping at each and every blossoming stem,
But in the clipping I shall halt the spreading,
And smile to see my garden blooming once again.