More Bad Poetry: So I Weed; Sow I Tend

NOTE: Just another snatch of bad poetry. I was actually praised for handling the "tight structure" in this one.

And the mole crept along the garden
dragging rake and spade
stumbling root and snuffing candle
as his starlit path me made.

"I was worried; I was waifish,"
mutters Mole as he rubs his eyes.
"That the cabbages had gone all to rot,
and the raspberries gone to pies."

"For that lazy, bloated creature, snoring
in hovel between crick and track
fritters his days and nights away
as the garden turns to brack."

"So I weed; sow, I tend
and root beneath the dirt.
Dreaming while the sun is hot
while robins sound alert."

"Sow to live, and soon I'll die
naught young, nor holes, nor beets
can keep me here to loaf away
as the rhubarb's green repeats."

Mole, he crept and trundled 'long
gaining hole mid merciful black
and died he there with death's cold stare
still body gummed up the track.