Upon the lawn of Robin Hood green
Appear the dusky Mow-Be-Gone,
They whose planting by unknown hands
Is rarely contemplated, if even conceived
The push mower runs loud on the ears
Its blade unsharpened many years
As each swath of the mowers path
Scythes as cruelly as the last
Claiming the mauve-gay Mow-Be-Gone,
‘til none remain save in this song
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