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Where, without bloodshed, can there be A more relentless enmity Than the long feud fought silently Between man and the growin grass. Man's the aggressor, for he has Weapons to humble and harass The impudent spears that charge upon His sacred privacy of lawn. He mows them down, and they are gone Only to lie in wait, although He builds above and digs below Where never a root would dare to go. His are the triumphs till the day There's no more grass to cut away And, weary of labor, weary of play, Having exhausted every whim, He stretches out each conquering limb. And then the small grass covers him. |