A tiny weed sprouted one day
in the corner
of my three-hundred-acre farm.

It crept upward, then to the side,
then around some corn stalks which I had planted
and were growin' quite well, thank you.

It spinned an' slithered like a snake around a few more stalks,
then suffocated them.
I went to examined the damage, but
It spit fire at me, like a dragon.

Well right then and there I decided to kill this disgustin'
and meaningless critter, which was never mentioned
in any chapter of
The Good Book
an' never should have been.

I was angry at this fire-spittin' weed.
Had never come across one in all my years -
I knew this guy was gonna be tough.

I went to the barn and grabbed a hoe.
In the meantime the weed had gobbled up ten more ears of corn
and was sittin' there flossin' his teeth.
Well, I declare, I says to myself,
ain't this a fine sight.

I proceeded to chop away, chop, chop,
hack, rip, and down right battle-ax the bastard -
it kept right on grinnin' at me.

I really let him have it this time,
I mean I was gonna maim,
I mean I was gonna mutilate,
I mean I was gonna mangle
this fractured flower an' send it to its Maker
special delivery.

I got my WeedAway and Slice-O'Matic out of the garage
And then the electric, super-powered weed destroyer.

No good.

It kept right on breathin' an' growin', even faster then before
It now occupied a full one-half of my farm
and was roastin' some corn on a skillet.
I mean the nerve of him.

I called old Joe at the General Store
and ordered some super powerful
EX-56 Plus to do the bastard in.

I said the hell with the instructions,
opened the top and let her rip.
Dribbled this sludge all over,
three thousand cans in all,
one hundred per acre
to make sure the job got done.

But it liked the stuff!
Sucked it down like Bud,
burped, farted, staggered, but didn't pass out,
and I didn't have any more EX-56 Plus left.

And it sobered up right quick,
brewed itself some Maxwell House,
and laughed at me, I say it laughed at me.
Then it pretended to stick a finger in its slimy throat as if to puke.

My top blew, I mean it exploded, burst forth, I mean it was a
tornado of up-right proportion,
all because of that creepy cutthroat.

Well, damn!
If I couldn't send it to hell, I could sure try.
I got out my siphon, sucked the gas out of my Ford pickup,
my John Deere tractor, you name it,
even my Chevy Malibu with cruise control.

I started sprayin' that stuff all over, all over my three hundred acres,
which that hairy ill-breed had done destroyed.
That de-formed devil just laughed and laughed,
thinkin' this gas was whiskey or wine or somethin',

But I fooled him.
It was genuine, I mean genuine Amoco Super Unleaded,
with no alcohol added,
and I finished sprayin',
looked at him readin' his Wall Street Journal real casual like,
and said, bye, bye.

Whoosh!

Up the blazes, keel-haulin' every last bit of vermin,
every last grain of soil in my shattered life.
Ragin' . . . ragin' . . .
Smoke billowed thousand of miles high.
I mean the stuff was workin' - but maybe too good.

My barn caught fire and my house caught fire,
and my Ford pickup, my John Deere tractor, you name it,
even my Chevy Malibu with cruise control.
There was no fire hose in sight, just everythin' in ruins, lost -

I sat down and cried.

Damn weed. I should have castrated the son of a bitch.


- Bob Miller