It must be Saturday afternoon.
I hear the annoying, buzzing din
Of gas-drinking, grass-eating,
Cud-chewing monsters
Disturbing the neighborhood's quiet
repose.
It can't be avoided, the dread
obligation
Of suburban dwelling which no one
enjoys.
Unlike the city where concrete and
asphalt
Adorn every lawn and nothing grows.
In younger days it was not such a
labor,
And I sometimes got paid when I
hired out my service.
But now it seems that the lawn is
mine,
And so is the weekly summertime
chore.
I suppose someday I'll become one
of those
Who hired kids like me for their
dirty work,
So that I won't awake on Sunday
morning
With joints that ache and muscles
sore.
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