I spent my morning smooshing as many aphids as possible on my chilli bush. Those succulent new sprouts of growth must taste damn good, because the poor thing has no chance! I stole a poem in my disturbed state from a fellow frustrated blogger, but tweaked it to suit my chilli tree:
My fingers are yellow with aphid juice
I won't be calling any truce,
won't be waiting any longer
to quench my aching hunger.
Aphid guts. Aphid guts.
For an hour in the Autumn wind
I pressed aphids for their sin!
For an hour dodging 7th floor rain
I chase in maniacal vain,
squirting the slaughtered aftermath
in a rush of white oil bath.
In the evening I'll raise my hands
against the window, cover the setting sun
with the fading yellow almost undone--
on my skin, in my eyes... aphids, aphids, aphids
Oh and don't get me started on my poor little lime tree and the leaf miner turning its leaves inside out...