Down here in my garden, where the things are growing,
We, the royal we, fill our hands in the soil.
Sometimes our plants fail, sometimes they grow green,
(though never in-between)
And we, the royal we, get our hands back in the soil.
When the weather comes, it’s ice or boil.
Even we, the royal we, can’t change it.
But the garden grows best in shit,
So it’s up to me, royally me,
To put my hands back in the soil.
Alright, that’s egotistical, I’ll admit.
So sue me, the royal me.
Gardening is hard when I can’t control the weather
(though I sure can blame it).