The grass gets cut till the yards are done.
Surely this cannot be fun.
You start early and finish late. You even wack against the gate.
Without a grin, you make sure every blade gets trim.
The sound is strong. Cats and dogs hide.
Birds can’t chirp as your mower glides.
Row by row, like solving a puzzle.
Your face is covered by a muzzle.
Your machines are what produces the clatter.
You must yell if you choose to chatter.
A necessary chore, like a hair cut.
You press on despite being stuck in a rut.
Squirrels stare, what is that sound?
As they munch on a nut till it hits the ground.
Busy, busy, lots of yards around.
Your bark is louder than my hound.
Appointments are set. Our needs are met.
You rumble on, even when the grass is wet.
Our noses smell the powerful scent.
As we yawn and stretch, air conditioning blows through the vent.
Even though this is not fun.
You roll on till the job gets done.
In long sleeves underneath the beaming Sun.
