Sonnet 546,613, or A Sonnet on the Killing of the Bamboo
Shall I weed whack thee on a summer's day?
Spring is more comfy and more temperate.
Hot sun doth singe the bare skin on June days,
And yet thy stalks leap on such a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often rose thorns bite the gentle skinned
While thy stalks march on and on in brutal lines,
By scythe or bypass pruner’s blades untrimm'd.
Oh thy deep buried rhizomes shall not die,
Nor lose possession of that plot thou ow'st!
Nor may I brag I killed thee by and by,
When in relentless lines toward house thou grow'st.
So long as I can breathe and make my plea,
So long I fight and fight to death with thee!