Mowing Song

Swishing, stripping, slashing,
slowly he goes mowing,
scythe-blade lashing lithely,
lethally beneath him.
Gallant flowers are falling,
fate betrays the daisies.
Iron edge is tireless;
under him, earth thunders.

"Let's be glad!" the little
lamb bleats out and gambols,
"glad that when the winter
wakens, and they take me
from its dread and deadly
dangers to the manger,
loads of luscious fodder
lie there sweet and drying!"

Slashing, stripping, swashing,
sweeping, he goes reaping,
scythe is swishing blithely.
Slow, behind the mower,
walks a woman raking ---
watch your distance, mistress!
not too near me, darling ---
near my vicious whishing!

All the flowers have fallen,
fairest grasses perish:
life is brief, aborted
by the ripper's stripping.
Haft is humming softly,
hefted firmly, deftly;
iron edge is tireless;
under him, earth thunders.