Today we repeat one of Ira Maine’s more lucid works, one which probably requires no commentary

A BUCOLIC TRAGEDY

My chance has gone, all hope dispatched,
Tears inundate my veggy patch.
I’d thought to fill your pastures sweet
With broccoli and purple beet,

Or share with you the Grand Mystique
Of Brussel sprouts and Fenugreek.
I’d noticed,oh, there’s much to tell
Of how your perfect buds do swell.

You rail against each sod and weed.
I’ve noticed how you husband seed…
And noticed with what pink-cheeked bliss,
You galvanise Asparagus.

But now I find (my senses cloud…)
And must accept that you’ve allowed
The path between our beds to grow,
For all around the rumours crow,

You’ve got another in my stead
To labour in your potting shed.
A lesson’s here, and learn it well,
In matters horticultural,

Don’t take your ease, your ploughshare spent.
Come plough again, her pleasure bent.
Lest there might come another in
To fructify her compost bin!.