The Mowing (or moaning) Martyrs
The Mowing, (or moaning), Martyrs
Summer’s here and days are long,
The weather’s getting warmer.
The birds are nesting, in full song,
And grass is growing taller.
Our men are sweating, feel worn out,
With gardening tasks so busy,
Mowing the lawn, ‘Must keep it down,’
Just watching makes us dizzy.
And then when it’s cut down to size,
Looks spruce, ship-shape and neater
They buy the stuff that makes it grow,
Much longer, lusher and sweeter.
And so the circle starts again,
The mower’s out and rumbling.
The martyrs moan and shake their heads,
Continue with their grumbling.
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