I've racked my brain
But can't explain
Why sun and ample rain
Yield nothing 
Yet my neighbor's patch is plush. 

I understand
Infertile land
Is chance and was not planned;
But something
Must be done to make it lush.

I've been a self-starter;
I guess I'll work hard;
I'll have to accept this bed of clay;
Oh how I pray that some day
There'll be roses.  

I prune and weed
And scatter feed
To give them all they need;
And in ev'rything
I use the master's brush.

Filling and mending.
Tilling, amending;
Making the soil more like loam;
Certain that this will be home
For my roses, roses, roses.