My Cordalyne

My cordalyne
Is doing fine
In the middle of my lawn.
When it was bought
And it was short
It looked a bit forlorn.
But now it’s grown
In size and tone,
It’s suffering from vanity,
Exudes an air
So debonair
It verges on insanity.
We do not feed it,
Seldom weed it,
Yet it seems to thrive.
As Grandad said,
“If it’s not dead,
At least it’s still alive.”