Song of Insane Gardener

Oh, I dance upon the lawn in the cold, white dawn,
 And I gloat upon the corpses of a countless million slain;
Where the frost about my feet spreads its winter winding sheet
There I chuckle and I chortle as I chant my mad refrain;
'Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead,
Benzole couldn't kill 'em; but they're dead, dead, dead.'

Men have said I went insane when the Summer brought its bane:
Beetle, bug, and butterfly, weevil, wog and worm,
And a thousand million thrips with my garden came to grips
Plus a plague of things that fly and creep and crawl and squirm.
Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead,
They sneered at 'em, and leered at 'em, and gaily gorged ahead.

They fell upon my fancy phlox, hyacinths and hollyhocks;
Amaryllis, antirrhinum, lupin, lily, all were lost.
All my garden's vanished glory now remained a sorry story,
While, dismayed, I sprayed and sprayed and reckoned not the cost.
Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead -
Vain were these till nights afreeze dire destruction spread.

Lifeless lie the pupa cases, larvae leave no least lone traces.
Apphis eggs (if there be any) are a pest now haply past.
With a mad song in my throat, in the dawn I dance, I gloat;
For my eveil days have ended, and revenge is here at last.
Vain the Paris green, the sulphur; vain the arsenate of lead;
Fourteen frosty nights have finsihed all the olden dread.

So I dance upon the lawn in the cold, white dawn,
And I chortle o'er cadavers of a countless million slain.
Men may moan and deem it sad, vowing that I am as mad
As a hatter.  what's it matter?  Join my maniac's refrain:
'Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead,
Benzole couldn't kill 'em; but they're dead, dead, dead.'