Weeds, Beards, and Bumblebees

When all's said and done, I doubt this is a characteristic that will have done very much good, but I do admit that I'm an obsessive weed-picker. *inspects dirt beneath fingernails critically* Yes, I'm a weed-picker. I mean, when you think of all those little roots and shoots that you've picked out at the plant-nursery, buds and new greenery and little leaves that will one day (hopefully) blossom into lilies, azaleas, daises, ferns, irises, and 'wait-and-see-what-on-earth-this-is plants' sinking their little roots down into the soil and their little shoots up into the sunshine; when their space and nutrients are cruelly stolen by foreign elements that don't particularly belong in that corner of the garden, that's when one gets the overwhelming urge to dive for the digging knife, a bucket, and start re-adjusting the ratio of garden plant to weed growth, right? Right? Maybe not. I mean, this guy below looks pretty innocent:

His single stem bravely holding up under the weather and sun, daring to grow big and make a real weed out of himself, something worth taking up soil and an aim worth growing for, he has hope and ambition and the will to live... and yes, he was unceremoniously and hastily yanked out. Shoh, is it possible to have a guilt trip over a simple weed?

Anyway, during the pulling of the innocent little weeds with their extensively complicated and sprawling networks of roots, I began thinking of Hobbiton and the Shire and the Old Took and old ale and the Party Tree (The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien had been read recently). The result of such "innovative" thinking was a bit of a rhyme.

Duri the Lound

When the stars of Mot gave way

And the moons of Feri appeared,

Duri the Lound decided one day

That 'twas time to earn The Beard.

And so he went to the Forest Coss

To weave himself a cap,

And spun a cape from a window drape

And drew himself a map.

His armor was woven from mossy felt,

His sword a whittled strand.

A bright blue feather was his belt,

And a wood chip shielded his hand.

He climbed aboard his blossom-boat,

And so sailed he away

Upon the ocean that was the moat

Of a child's castle Fay.

He alighted upon the beach-gold sand,

Looked both up and down,

And decided that adventure inland

Would further on be found.

And thus he strode with his sword a-bristle

Into the mountains Tryn

To spend the night beneath a thistle,

And snore himself a din.

This snorting aroused the Bumblebee

(Oh, the fiercest ever found!)

Sputtered and buzzed this Bumblebee

Disturbed by Duri the Lound.

Up he flew and away he hummed,

With his angry sting a-wagging,

Straight to Duri, who had drummed

His shield and set his moss-banner a-flagging.

Oh, it was a fearsome fight,

I'm sure you will agree!

With sword and shield and fist and might

Duri fought the Bumblebee.

And he flew the Bee home in the bright sunshine

To win Filberta the Fair.

He now lives content in a cottage of pine,

With a table from the pit of a pear.

(conceptual art of the Beard of Duri the Lound; he managed the heroics to acquire it... ;) )