My neighbour has a lovely lawn

A brilliant shade of green.

He nurtures it with a tender care

And not a weed is seen.

 

A hand mower’s in constant use

At any time of day

Even in the blazing noon –

There’s so much I could say.

 

For when I need to take a nap

In the early afternoon

There the mower goes again,

I really want to swoon.

 

But there’s another instrument of torture,

A heavy roller squeaking,

Up and down and roundabout –

Yet I refrain from speaking.

 

I rush inside and slam the door

And give a silent scream.

If only I could realise

An earnest heartfelt dream!

 

That the lawn next door was being mown

Only once a week,

And nevermore that I would hear

That dreaded roller squeak!