I understand the man who loves
His big mowing machine,
Pretends it a chore, a bore,
But relishes it.
His body quivers with
Its vibration power,
He knows control,
No tie to fold,
Nor boss to grovel.
And as men do, when
He is through,
Under the shade of a tree,
He has a beer, raises a cheer,
To neighbors who
Pass on sidewalks near,
He smells his newmown grass as in some
Past medieval time he might
Travel horseback as mighty Lord of
All he surveyed.
At least for one Saturday hour.
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