My soul doth sing and my heart doth leap,
When I catch sight of compost heap.
Let me explain what there is to behold
In this putrefying, festering mound of mould.
Cut grass and leaves, bygone meals,
Old tea bags, stale bread, potato peel,
Bananas turned black and egg shells galore,
All coated in powdery-blue fungal spore.
All those things you don’t want, you just throw them here
And nutritious soil will appear in a year
Thanks to worms and ants, beetles and lice.
It is a creepy crawly paradise.
They tirelessly process the peel and the rind
With nothing but their self-interest in mind.
Nothing is wasted, nor centrally planned.
It’s like Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand.
This is an example it’s plain to see
Of a functioning, free-market economy.
Ode to a Compost Heap