Mowing the lawn is such a chore.
It makes my body tired and sore.
Why do we persist in insisting so
That grass can't be allowed to grow?
We plant the stuff right in our yards.
It keeps away the weeds and dust
And serves its purpose admirably,
So we lop off its ends periodically.
Isn't this a cycle strange?
Faithful servant grass obeys;
It covers the entire yard.
Reward? Chop off its body parts.
The bodies of the almost-living
Strewn among the truly dead
Until the executioner
Returns to steal another head
To quell grassy rebellion weak
And be the ruler of one's yard
Is not only a tedious task,
But cruel and boring, vicious, hard.
The senseless stalemate never ends,
The fighting of perpetual growth
To plant a seed and stunt its life
Seems quite counterintuitive.
The time it takes to mow the yard
Just isn't worth the small reward.
A moment's respite from the fight
Is all that's gained by this show of spite.
Cutting the grass: a brutal act
And pointless too in all respects,
But before you agree, just to be fair
I think the same of trimming hair.
