How I love the sweet explosion, of the crocuses in Spring.
Bursting out of roundabouts, they make me want to sing
With joy that winter’s given up, its wicked work is done,
A million eyes have woken up, they’re blinking in the sun.
The sudden swathes of daffodils, the scent of warming air,
The courtship tunes of hopeful birds, about to make a pair.
And the snowdrop ballerinas, out dancing with the bees,
They pirouette and bow their heads, in circles round the trees.
But I hate you with a passion, when I drag you from the shed,
Coughing up your stinking guts, pretending that you’re dead.
You grunting, twitching, useless brute, why don’t you want to go?
No matter how I push and pull, you just don’t want to know.
You wheeze a bit and nearly roar, but then begin to choke,
You tease and spit but soon you snore, and belch out oily smoke.
Come on, you lazy, filthy pig – release the beast in you,
Spark up, help me cut the grass – it’s the least that you can do.
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(Dedicated to anyone who’s ever had trouble with their lawnmower!)