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!"

Comments

[dawn-guy.livejournal.com]

When it eventually shows up in google, you'll find my cold response here (http://groups.google.com/groups?selm=67e0cb28.0302100653.3f1abfb2%40posting.google.com&output=gplain), assuming I've got the Message-ID transliterated correctly. Get yourself a real news server if you want to see it sooner.