not even the raking of leaves
But there’s one thing I do not do
It’s one of my favorite peeves
Organic gardeners, throw your darts
and tell me I’m not being Green
But I just can’t save up everything
for a turning-barrel and screen
Some compost everything they have
including their table food scraps
But I will buy my compost “done”
from a nearby Nursery, perhaps
I won’t have to remember to turn it
and keep it’s temperature high…
not even remember to keep out things
which have pesticides that I apply
I’ll shun the “delight” of making my own
I’ll just buy some, and plant me a tree
I like to do many things that are Green
but composting is not one for me
Cheers,
Gardener Dave
Note: The title of my poem is not original with me (shame, shame!). One of those who beat me to it is the author Darrell Schweitzer, who wrote: Non compost mentis: “An affrontery of limericks and other eldritch metrical terrors” (sound interesting?). There are no doubt other aberrations of non compos mentis, but I’m too lazy to look them all up, and your interest is probably flagging anyway. :o)
