Dave was a gardener, expert and proud,
with vigour and stamina hugely endowed.
He’d satisfied clients from Bournemouth to Stroud.
‘You reap what you sow,’ was his creed.
Jean was the widow of Group Captain Vaughan,
who’d cherished their garden and nurtured the lawn,
then died of cirrhosis all pallid and drawn.
‘Drink and be merry,’ his creed.
Two summers on Mrs Vaughan felt depressed,
‘Though not one to marry again,’ she confessed,
‘I long for the warmth of a masculine breast!’
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
Dave saw her garden, now scruffy and wild,
a challenge for him and his skills, and he smiled.
He called at the house; Jean was promptly beguiled.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
‘Madam, you’ve hogweed as high as your head.
Your lilac needs pruning; your prunus is dead.’
‘I’d hoped to find someone like you, Dave,’ she said.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
All through the summer he worked like a slave –
to weed and to water, to prick out and pave.
The garden looked stunning, and so too did Dave.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
Dave brought his working clothes, changed in the shed.
‘I get very hot when I’m working,’ he said.
She gave him cold drinks and a hat for his head.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
Once in a heat wave he took off his shirt.
His muscular torso got covered in dirt
and Jean, who’d been watching him, went out to flirt.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
‘Dave, you’ve been digging for over an hour.
Now, don’t over do it – you’ll wilt like a flower.
It’s time anyway, so come in for a shower.’
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
Dave took his shower, while Jean, full of lust,
undressed in her bedroom and perfumed her bust,
then put on a peignoir she knew she could trust.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
When Dave emerged she could see he was dressed.
‘I thought that, perhaps . . . ,’ she began to suggest.
Her peignoir fell open exposing one breast.
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
‘I’m a professional,’ she heard him shout,
‘I come here to garden, not fff . . . fiddle about!
Well, thanks for the shower; I’ll let myself out.’
‘You reap what you sow,’ was his creed.
Deeply affronted, Jean called down the stairs,
‘Now listen, you upstart, don’t give yourself airs.
You’re sacked, do you hear? Go on – make yourself scarce.’
‘Go for it, girl!’ was her creed.
Dave didn’t leave, though, until he had sawn
the lilac tree down and, to spite Mrs Vaughan,
with weedkiller burnt a rude word in the lawn.
‘You reap what you sow,’ was his creed.
Jean hired a new gard’ner, only to find
him useless with plants – although clearly inclined
to try out the bedding scheme she had in mind.
‘Life is too short,’ was their creed.
John Barclay