It rained,so I can’t cut the grass,
I did it yesterday…
While I was ill, it grew so much
The small dog lost her way.
I’d conjured up a strimmer thing
And wrestled with the shears,
My poor lawn looks as if
Its not been manicured for years.
And then the mower wouldn’t go
With screwdriver and knife
I operated on the thinng
And forced it back to life.
It needs more than a cut or two
To bring it back in line,
So, foolishly, I thought I’d start…
Assuming I’d be fine.
I huffed and puffed to mow it down
I’d strimmed it first as well…
But by the second mower pass
You couldn’t really tell.
A mini haystack had appeared,
The compost overflowed,
The air was snowing shredded grass
The lawn looked barely mowed.
I’ll cut it once again, I thought,
Or maybe use the sickle…
But now it’s just a soggy mess
‘Cause English weather’s fickle.
The small dog rolls her eyes and sighs,
“Why struggle so to mow?
It’s raining cats and dogs out there…
It’s only going to grow!”
If I could just take down the fence,
Invite the cows to roam,
The wilderness that once was lawn
Might once more feel like home.