• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 10
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Have mower, will travel

There’s grass to be cut, out there.
Someone might as well do it, and that someone might as well be me.
Peddling my trade in shearing those blades,
I travel light.

Roaming across country following new growth,
They call me a meadow snagger,
A jingling Johnny of the fields,
Cross country ringer.
No garden too small, no estate too large,
But bring me a cuppa when I’m done.

I’m no lounge-about,
I’ll turn my hands to any green.
From ryegrass to fescue, bent or smooth,
A neat trim will come your way.
An underground seasonal nomad,
With an eye for the overgrown.
I reap the cuttings that you sow.

Just a rambling man seeking trade.
Get on your bike, they said.
I got on my mower instead.