Somehow, the wrinkled citrus thrown away
By many hands still stands in light of day
And rocks as many look on in dismay
At thoughts that its foul roots still spread and sprout,
That they yet linger, that none can rip out
Each shoot that springs up from the soil. No doubt
Remains that that invasive plant endures,
That, festering, it for itself secures
A foothold, fed by dozens of manures
That many yet will all too gladly spread.
They shovel out what falls from every head
Among them, feast, and think themselves well fed.
No wonder, then, such stink is in the air
As leaves behind all hog-farms in compare.

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