My old shoes caked with mud and dirt,
I raked the moss and dug the earth.
I sowed the seeds and mowed the grass,
And said I'd need to go to mass

To make up for the swearing at
The weeds, the grass and all things that
Refuse to acquiesce to my
Demands to live and grow or die.

My shades determine what I see,
Just like that gardener on TV.
He makes his flower beds shock and stun,
Like Sid Vicious would have done.

I threw a whiskey bottle too.
I cursed and swore as it flew
Through the air, towards a tree.
I gave the finger to a bee.

But it's not the same as on the stage
When I was less in terms of age,
And so much more in other things,
When we were young and gods and kings.

Not that I was in a band,
Or ever failed to walk or stand
Because of substances consumed,
When we were young and dull and doomed.

Somewhere between rock and roll
And gardening, there lies my soul.
These two things meet in the world,
In bottles, rakes and F words hurled.

And making gardens shout and yell,
Breaking all the rules as well.
Designs that say 'I'm cool, I'm hot',
And 'up yours if you think I'm not'.