Life is a lawn,
we are but blades of grass.
We live our lives for summer,
for that warm nourishing sun,
but it always seems to me
that we live in an endless winter.

We dread those who'll tread
and leave us flat.
Some of us are something more,
daisies and buttercup artists
or bushy business men,
who soak up the meagre sunlight,
leave others only shadow.

Sometimes we seem to be getting somewhere,
finally growing, becoming comfortable,
then something happens,
a lawnmower.

The End

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