Little boy blue, come blow your top,
The sheep are in the meadow and the cows have eaten your crop,

The plot of endeavor thickens as you dare to turn your back,
Tales of your misfortune sicken as your green thumb turns to black,

Your narcissuses narcissistic instead of standing in a vase,
In a mirror, constantly primping, each hung up on its petulant face,

If you hadn't become a gardener, you might now be a success,
Maybe living a life of leisure and have avoided all this mess.

                                                           by D. Edgar Murray