The English Rose By David Stirzaker
Roses are
sh*t. And growing them’s worse,
A lifetime
of failure has caused me to curse.
I plant
them and feed them, and prune them and such,
But they
never respond, or do very much.
The
cuttings are vicious, all covered in snags,
Which hurt
as you stuff ‘em, in black plastic bags.
The blooms
are quite lovely, they last half a day
Till the
first puff of wind blows the petals away.
I
deadhead the blooms, and I take off the suckers,
But do
they reward me, the ungrateful…. little shrubs?
The
climbers won’t climb, and the ramblers won’t ramble,
The teas
and the standards are always a gamble.
My
compost’s well-rotted, my mulch is aerated,
As I try
to grow Engerland’s most over-rated.
I’ve
tried in full sun and I’ve tried in the shade,
They’re
the biggest mistake that this gardener has made.
I’ve
tried in the North, and way down in the South,
I wish
Alan Titchmarsh had just shut his mouth.
Excuses,
for failure with roses, are legion,
They vary
a little from region to region,
Too sandy,
wrong pH, salt winds or the cold,
Cat poo,
kids’ footballs or mildew, or mould.
I buy lots
of stuff for them, (that’s all a racket),
It looks
bloomin’ marvellous, there on the packet.
But I want
roses red, and I want
violets blue,
So I get
ripped off, weekly, down at B & Q.
You
mustn’t think all of my plants end as failures.
You should
see my peonies, fuschias and dahlias.
My
shrubbery’s brill, (to use the vernacular),
My lawn is
a picture, my borders spectacular.
My
vegetables grow to prodigious sizes,
I take
them to shows where they sometimes win prizes.
I’ve got
trees of all colours, which grow on the lawn,
They
sparkle with frost on a cold winter’s morn.
I’ve got
a big pond, with beautiful fish,
I should
be content but I’ve only one wish.
I lift new
potatoes, fresh herbs are on tap,
My produce
is great but my roses are crap.
Every
Spring on the telly, I’m seduced by Chelsea,
And I buy
some more roses, this year they’ll do well, see?
(No they
won’t.)
They’ll
sit there infested, with flies green and white,
They’ll
scratch me and tear me, and still look like ….. not quite right
To get rid
of greenflies, I’m told is dead easy,
So I’m
out there again with my diluted Sqezy,
Then,
dormant buds remain non-emergent,
And I’m
told that I must’ve used too much detergent.
They cling
on, with yellowing leaves and black spots,
And some
blame the compost, and some blame the pots.
My roses
are sick, I can’t find the cure,
And the
RHS expert, says ‘fork in manure’
I’ve
forked in manure, I complain to the bloke,
So much
forkin manure it’s becoming a joke.
Wish my
garden blossomed, all peaches and cream,
With soft
- scented roses, and Rachel de Teme.
So I will
keep on trying, ‘cos I am no quitter,
But roses
are sh*t, and growing them’s sh*tter.
