I didn’t beat the lawn today.
I dropped my gloves and walked away
Before the final weed was mown,
Thus harvesting the seeds I’d sown
By choosing allergy avoidance
Over overgrown annoyance.
I do not concede defeat.
In Vegetation vs. Meat
The altercations never stop.
I’m bowed, but will come out on top.
I use knives
The grass survives
It uses pollen
I get hives
Happy Father’s Day to you
Who are or have or know one. To
The dads among us, raise a glass!
What? Right. Yes, sir! I’m off your grass.
Silly bunny on my lawn,
You squat. I wish you’d not. Begone!
You lift that little tuft of cotton
On your bottom, and the rotten
Pellets underneath fall out
Upon the grass that months of drought
Have worn into a state precarious.
I think saying “poop’s” hilarious;
Seeing it destroy my grass
Is less delightful. Move your ass,
I beg, to some locality
Resistant to fecality.
You’re welcome anytime to graze
Or even piddle, but I’ll raise
A strong objection if you poo.
Verstehen Sie? Please say you do–
Or, rather, won’t doo anymore.
That’s what my neighbor’s dogs are for.
The whirling horizontal blade
O’erpowers those that lately stood
Defiant, tall and green, now laid
To mulchy, rotting rest for good.
The Gardener who the tally keeps
Of ev’ry fallen leaf and weed,
However, knows the lawn but sleeps,
As soon will, too, who did the deed.
Caffeine, it seems, has always been
A natural antihistamine
So I’ll brew up a cup o’ joe or
Two before I start the mower.
Maybe I’m a snivelin’ wimp
But outdoor chores can cause a crimp
In plans to play sous le soleil
If it’s a pollenacious day,
And I’ll be forced to answer, “No”
To invitations après-mow.
Alive with hives from hip to shin,
From wrists to pits and chest to chin,
I’ll hide inside until they go.
(The backyard looks much better, though.)
A southern California lawn
If left alone, will soon be gone.
Ignore an Oregon lawn, though,
It comes inside and lets you know.
Mess with fescue at your peril,
Lest you find your lawn’s gone feral:
“You! The one whose thumbs oppose!
Don’t bother turning on the hose.
We’ve all the rain we’ll ever need.
In fact, we’ve even gone to seed!
So, F.Y.I., about the yard:
It’s ours now. Don’t take it hard.
You just set back and quaff your beers.
As vegetative privateers–
That means you give us license to
Do all the things that pirates do
Without the threat of retribution
From a glyphosate solution–
We’ll take on lawn order tasks
On your behalf (if someone asks).
But, listen, could you move your car?
We’re scuttling the driveway. Yarr!