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The Mole the Merrier. (Part Two) ©

Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England
2005

I thought the moles had gone away.
My smugness was my folly.
Convinced my dog had sent them off.
My wee Jack-Russell, “Molly”.

Admittedly, she did get one,
after which, my lawn recovered.
But alas and alack,
the wee buggers are back,
and I suppose you can guess,
Yes, I’m boverred!

For those who think they know me well,
“What a laid-back, never-fret bloke!”
They have seen me descend, to compulsive-obsessive.
I assure you. It’s no bloody joke!

I find myself, each work-day morning,
before the sun has rose,
sneaking down to the bottom of the garden,
sad to say, on my tippy-toes.

In search of a newly formed mole-hill.
A clue to where IT might be found.
Then I jump on my Fork, all around it.
Listening hopefully for a small screaming sound.

If anyone sane, were to witness these acts,
They would probably question my goal.
With my Psychotic-garden-pogo-stick dance,
I make ten times more mess than the mole!

But deep down, I know I can get him/her/them.
Coz I think they hide down where the bench is.
The only draw back,
With my all out attack?
The lawn looks like the World War One trenches!

The joys of horticultural pastimes,
can lead to Garden Nursery crimes.
So the moles, on my new lawn,
May not be so keen,
Now I’ve found out that concrete,
Also comes in green!



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