I’m not sure if you can see them,
From your side of the wall,
But those trimmers missed a spot or two.
But it’s okay, because now there are some lovely flowers,
Blooming in our garden.
Wind-buffeted, they dangle,
Over the wall,
Trying to get back to where nature is free.
They dare not crane their petals,
To glimpse the horrors behind them.
The bush from which they spring is bald and sad,
Without the sun to give it colour.
Do flowers hear the grass cry out,
Or is it drowned out by the mower?
Come, little yellow friends,
Ours is the utopia,
Overgrown and weedy.
Shun that desolation,
Neatness is forbidden,
We are but guests in your dominion,
Here is where you sing.