Botanists Poem by Mark Heathcote

She ran headlong far away in disgust
from her prize dahlia, like it had black flies
was it withered up when about to hybridise?
Couldn't she spare some water for its dust?
What's happening that you are this robust?
Uncaring, why snap it then so obliquely
a thing that wasn't-yours-completely, not chiefly?
My-sweet-flower comes let us not mistrust
yes, of course, let us look out for earwigs-
other bugs, yes, we need to stake, cane it.
Manure it; give plenty of love and care
that's when it transfixes all those glitches,
seen unveiled by judges who'll approve it.
Say it's best on the show, way beyond compare.