The ladies of the garden club
meet once a month at nine.
They speak of plants in Latin names
that I call bush and vine.

The ladies of the garden club
grow festive plants with flair
from larkspur and delphinium
to ferns like Maidenhair.

Just give me daisies for a chain
or tulips on the hill.
A meadow filled with Queen Anne's Lace
still gives my heart a thrill.

So here's to you dear ladies of
the grand old garden club.
I've really learned so much from you
but therein lies the rub.

If orchids really are a weed
and blue bells never ring,
If there's no blood in bleeding hearts,
do nettles really sting?

Are dusty lambs ears made of wool?
Are trumpet flow'rs in tune?
Do fragrant little four o'clocks
still bloom each afternoon?

I hope that one day I will know
as much as all of you.
I'd share my blossoms, shoots and buds.
For now -- I have no clue.