She asked so innocently

The comely maiden
Asked the ancient one,
Can you cultivate my garden?

He scratched his bald skull
To brush away the dullness.
What do you mean, my dearest?
Your fertile garden is barren?
Yes, she said, but it ought not be
And you shall help me plant it.

She served him tea and with beckoning smile,
And all at once he "got it".
I'd be greatly honored, comely maiden
To plow my seed into your fertile soil.
But life is short and I may not see
The abundance of your harvest.