There's a buzzing and a howling, just like bee in pain,
I can hear it in the bedroom, I can hear it through the rain,
It's a wailing octogenerous, an angry bumble bee,
It's the men who mow the grasslands, they are the death of me.
So in deadly preparation for their next impromptu trim,
I go out at dead of midnight, no, I'm not going for a swim,
I'll be armed with spikes and shovels, and I'm going to dig a pit,
That I'll cover up with twiglets, and the mower men are it.
So the next time that they lumber, with their fly-mows, to my lawn,
To wail and loud reverberate before the crack of dawn,
They'll start up their blessed mowers but suddenly go still,
As they tumble down my man-trap that lurks beside the hill.
I've put spikes along the bottom, I want to make this quick,
Once the mowers drag them down there they'll be dead within a tick,
And later, at my leisure, I'll put back my dug-up soil,
So the council will not find them beneath the heap of soil.
But although my plan's accomplished and the cutters, they are dead,
I fear that I still hear them, they are messing with my head,
And in the hours just after midnight, I see their ghostly forms,
They are out there trimming grasslands, instead of feeding worms,
So there's only one thing for it, I cannot stand this strife,
So I'll jump from my high window, and end my wretched life.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved