Blimey!
by sloanranger
Now, I've got an old man in the Navy,
his hair, what's there's, grey and wavy.
He's on a big ship,
away on a trip;
his name is Donald Dan Davy.
Now, Don-Dan does not realize,
that I rarely, barely make eyes.
But this lad came and asked,
could he mow my grass?
Well, Deary, I'll tell you no lies.
My garden had long been neglected,
of late, had not been inspected.
The boy was inclined,
said he gardened real fine,
was I wrong you think, to expect it?
Now my garden, it is a real treasure,
and I have so very few pleasures.
My plot's a delight,
I didn't think twice,
should have took the lad's full measure.
This callow lad was so lame,
my garden, it still is the same.
The grass isn't mowed,
my plot's not sowed,
gardening is just not his game.
So I've pitched him out on his ear.
I said: "Deary, let me be clear:
if you can't keep the grounds,
you can't stay around;
my plot, you cannot engineer."
So I wait for my old, grey limey,
he may be old but, Blimey!
He knows how to weed,
cut grass and plant seed,
even makes things grow all night-y.
He keeps my plot day and night,
knows my 'riparian rights.'
And you can safely assume,
he makes things bloom -
long into, Lotharion nights.
