Leaves of Grass: A (Silly) Song of My Lawn

Sorry, Mr. Whitman...

Leaves of Grass: A (Silly) Song of My Lawn

The verdant lawn outside my house is shimmering with dew,
Glistening with anticipation of the sun's photosynthetic joys!
At dawn it glows and glimmers, standing mightily above the other lawns,
It is the king of lawns, the lord of all the grasslands!
Proudly my lawn stands, a giant among lawns, reigning unquestioned.
Of my lawn I sing.
O how immense is my lawn's stature!
O How limitless its expanses!

The lawn of the old lady next door is a neat-clipped lawn,
A cringing, cowering, dog of a lawn,
Quickened only by the lively excrements of my mighty lawn,
Basking wistfully in the glow of my verdant lawn.
O miserable lawn of the old lady next door!
How I pity your sterile neatness, your shocking lack of biodiversity!
Next to my lawn, how plain, how uninteresting, how deplorably orderly.
O close-trimmed, lifeless lawn, how boring you look!

And yet my lawn grows too much, yes, even for me,
The one whose artful neglect has caused its towering greatness.
O unrepenant lawn! How ungrateful your tall, weedy stems!
How you have forgotten the one who allowed you to reach such great heights,
To be the ruler of all you survey?
Why must you grow taller than the meager mind of man can fathom?
A day of retribution will come to you, my once-proud lawn, yes, has come even now!
My wrath will mow you down; I'll translate your pride into clippings.

Then, O lawn, how low you will be! How piteous! How utterly stricken!
Your shavings will be gathered in lifeless mounds,
Clippings good only for fertilizer.
Even the old lady's lawn will tower over you, O lawn of rebellion.
O lifeless lawn! How still your form, how shapeless your mown self will be!
And yet hope remains, O lawn of my youth, lawn of my vigor.
In the spring, after a deep sleep beneath the snowy blankets of winter,
You will arise again, and shine forth, full of dandelions and weeds, to rule again!

And you will learn at last, when all is done,
When all the lawns around are once more subject to your might,
The truth I always wanted to impart:
You better not get too uppity, or I will cut you.


I had intended to keep this going for about another 140 stanzas, but I really need to go mow my jungle.