Mr. McPhee

We’re all rather worried about Mr. McPhee
He’s growing these plants in his garden, you see
Every so often he pulls off the leaves
Of the strange spiky plants growing under his trees

What he does with them, we’re none of us sure
But we know it’s impossible to get behind his door
Mr. McPhee used to grow a nice rose
Why he’s growing these new plants, nobody knows

They’ve no flowers to speak of, they’re always untidy
But Mr. McPhee always prunes them on Friday
Something else we’ve noticed – he’s now rolling his own
With a strange kind of tobacco which to us is unknown

The police came round here just the other day
And they took Mr. McPhee and his strange plants away