In a garden 

Where Freedom flourishes

And the buds multiply by the week;

My harvest runneth over,

And I have more than I’ll ever be able to eat. 

But a man 

Sometimes wants to eat 

More than one thing. 

Sometimes, the best flavor

Gets a little old. 

And in a garden where everything but Freedom is suffering silently in dry squalor

Maybe it’s time for me aim the hose at something else.