’Twas oft we strolled among the weeds, we were in love, you see,
And Roger Jones was going to build a bungalow for me.
We used to rest upon a rock just where the weeds were tall;
We were engaged, I think, until the builders spoiled it all.
But now they’ve ruined Roger’s plans, they’ve dug up all the lot;
With all the brick and mortar round, you’d never know the spot.
They came with carts and horses; tore our wilderness apart;
No wonder Roger Jones was wild; it nearly broke my heart.
We could have done some wondrous things if time were not so slow;
The weeds, they might have grown to trees, fit for a bungalow.