The Yard(a poem from my dad about his yard)

Now, that I have retired I wonder how much I perspired

To get all the stuff and gear, and buy the house that I have here.

I think of working days & hours required to be a success or get fired.

As I remember it then, we had a yard, house and a den,

I don’t think it was quite so hard to maintain that yard.

That yard was the place you went when your mother’s patience was spent.

You kids are driving me nuts go outside or I’ll beat your butts.

So out we went to hide and seek, dig holes, make forts, catch snakes, and kick the can

And I never remember my Dad being mad when he saw the fun we had.

He knew what a yard was for, to entertain your kids and others by the score.

They were glad that all that mess, was out where it should be…

Because that was purpose of the yard you see.

Now things have changed and I lament, the yard is gone and in its stead

I have some crappy flower bed. Now I have lots of time and I find the yard job is mine.

And the yard is not a place for recreate or play; it’s become my job, my work all day.

It no longer takes a couple of hours, to mow the grass and plant a flower.

Even now that I’m an old fart, the yard has become a work of art.

I have to visit the GOD's at Lowes each day, buying stuff to keep it perfect that way.

The work has grown, the task too hard, so I have employees to tend the yard.

What we used to do with shovel rake and hoe, they have machines that whack, grind and blow.

It now reminds me of days of old, when I was boss and my people I told,

Get busy you buggers all, blow the leaves, can’t you see its fall.

And just like then as I order them about, they look at me as I shout,

What’s this asshole talking about…

Dave Walker