This Poet’s Lawn’s mostly crabgrass,
Shattered old dafs, sprig sassafras,
I mow the lawn each month or two,
I’m not concerned much by the view
My neighbors fear their home’s values
Will fall, caused by my diligence due,
They’ve sent me letters, wrote me notes,
Of late I’m contemplating goats
For my garden’s not the outdoor kind,
The flowers I plant bloom in one’s mind,
Which I write and send to my publishing crew,
Much like this one I wrote for you
Which if you don’t like, Go Screw!
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