Gardening

Its ten past ten
Curved like a scimitar
Time hangs in my old Seconda
On its ticky face the black and white
Of paper and of print
"You cant beat the common incana
A lively little flower
Known for its spicy scent
And flat tan seeds
All petaled up though
Its well hung for a tiddler
Get them in the garden now
Stocks are disappearing fast"
I put the local rag down
Mindfull of
The sort of cliched crap
They plaster on its hoardes
Full of jingo and bad taste titillation
Like alabaster effigies of British Bulldogs
And willy warmers at car boot sales
Detritus so bizarre than in ten score years
It will be brazen antique
Like clumsy lumpen Meissen parrots
Or even bollockser their
Scroll moulded ugly Pugs
They look more like a dogs dumped
Than they were made
But they fetch good money
And indeed I've cashed some in
When an epah was a tenth of a homer
And big old fabrications were in the mind
Of the brew, the vitals of ingenuity
Made the earth round and fired it to bowls
These were filled with seeds
And when unearthed at ten past ten
Several thousand years later
The bowl was worth a fortune and the seeds
Sweet bugger all
Is this just bad manners on the part of mankind
To eschew the worth of gardening