My lawn, my Brocks (Spoken Word)

Once the lawn by my house was perfect,
a source of quiet pride.
I let the rest go to meadow.
Wild-flowers, butterflies and bees.
Only cut by scythe.

I wanted a wildlife garden.
There things go awry.
It's like I sent out invitations,
the wildlife just arrived.

A family of fox's came to sunbathe.
Cubs, like puppies, playing and snapping at flies.
And then the badgers moved in.
Badgers love worms.
The perfect lawn just died.

Every morning I make my coffee
and, if dry, I go outside.
I carefully cross battlefield lawn
and sit by my willows side.
My smile is beaming wide.
You see, it means there's still worms aplenty.
It means my Brocks are doing fine.

I used to be proud of a perfect lawn.
Now I know real pride.