Lawn Poem

O’ Lawn.
Thou Slut.
Whorish arbor of aberration.
Willing firmament for every bastard seed.

‘Well Mowed!’ I say,
too soon.

From thence thine untamed, matted,
desolation.
A hundred score more
skulking green intrusions rise o’r cowering grass,
like gnarled middle fingers.
‘Fuck you, thou wankless dolt’
their harpy voices creech
‘and the 15.5 horses ye rode in on!’