Interloper

On a delicate pappus you rose
Alighted on turf, seeming benign;
Locked into bedrock with pointed toes
Stretched lemon head to the sun.
Hydra, you dodge the mower blade.
I whack you with a spade for fun.
Fine! Senseless to fret.
I’ll transmute gold locks into wine
And eat your children with vinaigrette.