I Mow

I mow, a lot

This, in summer, makes me very hot

You see I have a lot of grass

Almost an excessive mass

The grass seems to grow more this year than any other

My mower and I are starting to feel like blood brothers

I suppose I could stop

Let it grow taller than the grasshoppers hop

But there are things that slither

I would rather mow and wither

Than let those venomous things

Be free to roam, unless I can grow wings