He disdains the filth of Nature.
The mud and muck that dirty all;
Her buzzing wings and raucous calls,
Irreverent of his stature.

He loathes that world's lack of order.
Its meanderings and tangles
That ignore straight lines and angles
Demarcating his starched borders.

Behind spring's green, he smells offense;
Bites and stings that haunt the garden.
Letting blood like mortar harden;
Pulling his skin barbed wire tense;
At Eden's edge he builds the fence.