There were two friends who gardened well;

One's name was Anne, one's Isabell.

Anne trimmed the hedges, raked the leaves,

And swept pine needles from the eaves.


A manicured retreat Anne kept;

She raked 'n raked 'n swept 'n swept.

Oh! Curse a weed if it would dare

To show its branches anywhere.


Now Isabell, a different case;

Allowed all weeds to grow in place.

"A plant whose harvest we don't reap,

Makes it no less a plant to keep."


The years fled by, their friendship shattered;

To stand their ground was all that mattered.

When Isabell died, Anne tended her plot;

An orderly mound was what she got.


'Round the tomb she'd chop and hoe;

'Twas fate, for Anne would never know

That when she died, poor weeding slave ...

Great weeds would grow upon her grave.