From dawn till tea there's Grandpa Joe in garden
with mug of Yorkshire tea and baccy wad.
The seeds are softly sown by hands long hardened
with tearing grass and thistles from the sod.
Each day the turnips thicken, pumpkins plump,
cabbages flourish, cauliflowers grow,
and green tomatoes gain their crimson rumps:
he takes all prizes at the county show.
To win the day our hero's up each night
working where shadows rear and black rats scurry:
in sewers with a shovel Joe, despite
the stench, gets compost from the human slurry.
A metaphor? Whate'er you make of it
remember that the best will grow from shit.