A Compact Swimming Pool Sized Patch of Johnson Grass Conflated with Pussy

It's at the northernmost curtailage, about thirty feet from the Fulton Hill track in a clearing within a yellow pine thicket. Last year I decided that I would exhume every stalk of the Johnson Grass within that area and plant cold-striated milkweed seeds within the disruptions created in the earth from my several excavatons. I planted in winter just before a nine-inch snowfall. I tucked the little guys in snugly within their respective subterranian hovels. And waited for falling magic to arrive. Fast forward to following summer. An exponentially thick growith of Johnson Grass blades have, again, overtaken the clearing, ostensibly thicker than before. Are they standing sentinel to emerging milkweeds? Actually Milkflowers. The time will tell. We're deep into an acute drought, so the optimistic gardner thinks that the Johnson Grass could be providing some kind of moisture to my little zygotic wards. I estimate the size of the thick stand to be close to the size of the swimming pool at Comfort Suites in Brownsville, Tennessee, near Nortwest Correction Complex, where I once appeared in court for a client, where cotton and armadillos can be witnessed, and where I took my new lover, barely twenty, on the road with me, purchasing along the way a beautiful purple swimsuit so she could bask erotically while I was away, like a pure anthropormorphic glorious goddess of a girlfriend. That little patch of black barely hiding beneath the purply tease triangulation. Why does it always have to do with pussy in the end? Because it was all about that in the beginning, too.