by Paul J. Willis
The nursery at the foot of the hill
does not sell privet—it sells pribet.
As if the hedge were a croaking frog
in a bend of the ribber. Eberything
I know suggests they hab got it wrong,
but I pay cash for my fibe-gallon bucket
of pribet, dribe home, dig a bery deep
dibot in the earth, plant it firmly,
and lib happily eber after. The end.