In my backyard with Dad cracking his whip,
It's cocktail hour. We watch the stormclouds roil
And lightning flash oer all that we did strip
Of weeds and bunch grass at no little cost.
I eschew power tools whene'er I can;
Expensive to maintain, then there's exhaust
Inhaled while working. But as Carol Ann
Sherrod might say, you does with what you has.
And what I had was a vast crop of weeds
Beyond what I felt I could cope with as
A single girl. But now my father bleeds
From helping me. The least that I can do
Is get him drunk, and yes, my mother, too.