must drag out my lawning gear.
Lay a rake upon my yard,
starting early – but it’s hard.
Trimming bushes – mowing grass,
given choices I would pass.
Bugs a crawlin’ in my nose,
‘nother in my ear it goes.
Dormant muscles are now sore,
ache all over – know the score?
Now it’s getting close to noon,
hope this torture’s over soon.
Too late now to make a switch,
rat me out or be a snitch?
Next year I won’t have this grief,
mow a blade – rake a leaf.
Here’s my angle – please take notes,
Green concrete or Billy Goats.