MANURE
My grandma years ago,
Used to make me laugh so,
The day the coal man came,
Rain or shine always the same,
Outside with a bucket and spade,
Gather horse droppings not afraid
Of what all the folks would say.
Then into the garden it went,
Off to the cow field I was sent,
With the same tools to gather,
Cow manure, not the sweet heather.
I’d hurry back quickly with my gift
That smelt terrible enough to lift
The roof of any old tool shed,
Then some straw she would find,
These ingredients she then combined,
Waited awhile to threw in some leaves.
The potion now all was ready,
That old crooked hand holding steady
As she feed the roses, rhubarb and lilac,
Of flowers and rhubarb our home didn’t lack.
I’ve just put manure on our rhubarb clump,
At least the smell didn’t make me jump,
For it was bought from the store,
No scooping beneath cow feet galore.
I hope it works as well as gran’s potion
She would not accept any new notion.
I don’t know how she’d get horse manure,
But she’d find some of that I am sure.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson May 25, 2002