Hermit In May W.P. Osborn All right, you twitching hop-toe scalawag, out of my raised bed. That there’s young lettuce— romaine, your Boston, leaf red. I’m the boss of this dirt rectangle, and I will tag your twistening ears with a mauve chartreuse paintball, squirt your fuzz hind end with water hard out this hose nozzle. Things the matter here, I don’t permit. I eat this stuff, you know. Sure, I chopped your naked sucklings not two, three weeks ago. But am I to blame you’d born them under-root the sapling ma- ple volunteer I spaded out? You ought- n’t make it personal. Luck played bad then. If you don’t get, I mean it to again.

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