Somewhere, there’s a command centre that coordinates Nature’s assault on our garden. I can almost hear the orders being barked out to the assembled forces. . .
“Right-ho, chaps, we’re ready for the action to commence.
The enemy is sleeping and will put up no defence.
Our spies have infiltrated, on their threefold pairs of legs,
And mined the field of battle with their countless tiny eggs.
“By now, those eggs have hatched, and our latest information
Is that thousands of their larvae are now wreaking devastation.
Phase Two sets off at midnight – pay attention at the back! –
You gastropods will hug the earth and lead the ground attack.
“You’ll decimate the veg patch as you ravage and despoil
All soft green shoots that dare to poke their heads above the soil.
Beware though, slippery warriors, for the enemy’s renowned
For scattering toxic pellets and crushed eggshells on the ground.
“At crack of dawn, Phase Three will start: you feathered, winged brigades
Will launch from all directions your coordinated raids.
Now, air-troops, you must set your course and from it never swerve:
The enemy will wave its arms, but you must keep your nerve.
“Peck off all fruits and flowers, hack into juicy leaves,
And watch those gardeners despair at what your air assault achieves!
Today shall be our day! But for them, a day of sorrow.
Once more unto the breach, lads – and we’ll do the same tomorrow!”