My broad beans are prostrate — lying flat
natured tall — never recumbent mat.
all day cruel winds blew — a wrestling match
blasted them in vegetable patch
be the season’s growth in truth a flop,
knowing atmosphere has tossed our crop.
A countermeasure is close,
supermaket — bill of fare
beans we’ll get from there.
I know some of you readers find it easy to trot out verse. Here is my attempt at an epigram. Is it one?