Slugs and spice

You listen with a soppy face
For the cuckoo’s first notes of the spring,
And sigh with ponderous wistfulness
As the last rose of summer gives in,
But not for us the rapt reception,
The salute and regret as we go
Though we come with the warm days as well
And thrive till the leaves are laid low.

You’ve never seen our finer points
You never take the time,
You fuss about your hostas and
You call our artwork slime.
You call us vile, but all the while
You’re trying to stamp us out
With boot and shears, or salt, no tears
As we fizz and writhe about.

Last year I heard a gardener joke
That we weren’t just after flowers:
We’d take over the world one day –
Too right, mate –
One more push, and, this summer,
It’s ours!