To the garden you fly, with the rising sun
Trowel unholstered, ready for the draw
Weeds cower in corners, knowing they are done
Vines tighten their tangled grip, fearing the law
The squirrels they scramble, the rabbits they run
No creature dares trespass a single paw
You reign supreme in this green, glorious realm
Your garden nation, along the southern elm
