The peonies are sprouting up,
In wickets need be propped.
With rain, the lawn grows quite a tangle,
Each blade soon to be cropped.
The tulips burst; their petals fall,
And violets seem a ruse…
But sure the world’s come back to life
In shades of bright chartreuse.
I smell the farmers till the earth,
And the cows’ve helped a lot…
For even far away down valley
I smell farm fudge from that plot.
Oy! The bitter tang of acrid air;
My nose resents the ether.
But though my olfactory’s forlorn,
T’will make toe-ma-toes sweeter.
A taste not wanted in the throat,
It’s par-ti-cu-late in nature!
But I bear it now, for in the fall
We’ll have some tasty taters.
Maybe a hike up Camel’s Hump
Will help us rise above the reek;
Tho’ I know plants below do love it so,
And harvest veggies will be peak.
The fetid, sour, malfeasant waft
Makes nostrils quite forlorn.
But sacrifice of springtime air
Come August makes sweet corn.
So to the sainted homeland cows…
To their alms I tip my hat;
But forgive me if I hold my breath
For it smells a bit like shat.
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