If an English mans home is his castle
Then his garden is his country estate,
He'll potter about there for hours
Caring not if the times getting late
Starting with an overgrown wasteland
The perfect garden he will create,
Clearing, cutting down and burning
Methodically getting it straight
With his trusty though aged lawnmower
Or a new fangled cutting machine
Happiness is in the lines made
In a lawn that is perfect and green
The borders though randomly laid out
Are filled with all manner of flowers
A colourful sight all the summer
‘Its the hard work of many long hours
Pruning all shrubs of their dead wood
With secateurs cutting out all of the old
Knowing when the job is completed
A healthier bush, in due time will unfold
Just pottering about in a garden
With it's colours both pallid and bold
Nurturing the trees, shrubs and flowers
Is worth more than silver and gold