They floated into my lower field after the big flood,

Saffron blooms covering what should be green.

They are aptly named;

Butter cups.

They rise from the fat of the land.

After much working and overuse,

They spread themselves over the surface,

And there the comparison ends.

They burn the mouth with sores and ulcers.

Perhaps a rest will crowd them out,

And release my land from their strangling hold.