Bane of my garden, fair April\’s evil gift,
Creeping green menace, Beelzebub\’s own weed.
Thou killest the seedlings upon which I would feed,
Like the Great Alexander, thou art cruel and swift.
Sprouting demurely at the birth of spring,
Thy blossom\’s deep blue to the gardener appeals,
But the stench of thy root thy true nature reveals
When onto the weed pile thy remains I fling.
Th\’art a yin plant, ground ivy, and yieldest with ease
To my yankings and pullings and strivings to clear
My poor garden of pests such as thee. Yet I fear
That thou mockest my efforts, ground ivy, thou tease.
No chemical killers needs\’t thou fear from me,
But I have greener weapons: I will spit on thee!