pome

[rone]

The call of yardwork rings around my head;
it threatens, buzzes, wheedles and cajoles.
When all i'd rather do is hide in bed,
instead i rise to prune trees and fill holes.
The canine fecal quantity alarms;
the lawns, both front and back, could hide Viet Cong.
I breathe and brace myself and flex my arms,
and shear away the branches grown o'erlong.
With shovel, paddle armed, the poop i glean,
a task Herculean in scope and deed.
But i mispeak, `tis Sisyphus i mean --
Those dogs excrete no sooner than they feed!
The mower's roar declares, "Your time has come!
O crying grass, my blade will strike you dumb!"