(with acknowledgements to Cubby Broccoli)

We’ve a new allotment holder

Just retired from MI6

Wears a Beretta on his shoulder

Calls our lady members “chicks”

Drives a silver coloured DB5

He won’t get much in that

When he has to transport compost

From his Docklands penthouse flat

 

He takes his Martini shaken,

In his shed he keeps a score

Of days spent with psycho villains

And nights of Pussy Galore

He’s handy at the annual barbecue

Shifting corn cobs on the grill

Keeps a cyanide pill in his shoe

He’s got a licence, to kill

 

On her majesty’s secret service

His was a distinguished career

Which only makes me ponder

What is he doing here?

Cleaning out his pots

Planting gourds and greens

Feeding his shallots

And tying up his beans

 

His tomatoes are a wonder

His chilli peppers are a treat

He has little time for small talk

He wears suede loafers on his feet

A Saville Row suit’s impractical

When hand weeding a lettuce bed

His small arms supply is tactical

When pests emerge, he likes them dead

 

At the Horticultural Society awards show

He aims to deliver high scores

Just like seeing off Oddjob and Dr No

And winning those fistfights with Jaws

He’ll take no prisoners in the tent

Of the leguminous beau monde

Victory is the sole intent

For the man they once called     Bond.