The haggard lawn is tired of the long hot summer now September has arrived.
Its seedy moustache is no longer luxuriant, but wiry;
A snake-like thing that has ambitiously unfurled without the full quotient of chlorophyll.

It is time to offer the sward the privilege of a cut.
Man moves towards machine, assuming simplicity.
But mower is asleep and will not fire.

At first he tries the simple fixes; fuel is present, spark plugs in place.
But the horticultural haircut remains undone,
As the tease of utility leads him to try louder, less sensitive approaches.

Meanwhile, the rotary monster relishes its narcoleptic interlude,
And the grass grows on.