MOW

The day dawns
With yellow yawns.
The houses glow
In beams of bronze.
The summer lawns
Sunward grow.
But now that they’ve
Begun to wave
When breezes blow,
Time you gave
Yours a shave.
Mow.

The mower clips
The tender tips
Row by row
In even strips.
Its sharpened lips
Behead the foe.
And as it flies
You civilize
The earth below.
Hear its cries:
“Circumcise.
Mow.”

Notice your neighbors engaging in similar labors.
Toiling over their turf
Which is perfectly verdant and bright.
But your grass is greener and grows with a nicer demeanor.
Yours has a heart and a soul and a spirit.
In the hum of the mower you hear it say:

“Master! Master!
Teach me your culture!
Give me a shot of your magical mulcher!
Slice me! Dice me!
Trim me! Gimme lots off the top!
And in return…
I’ll be your friend…
I’ll be your pet…
I’ll stain your feet with love.”

And now distill
The greatest thrill
That lawns bestow:
For when you kill
Chlorophyll
It smells just so.
The sprinkler’s on,
The jungle’s gone.
The grass is fit to eat upon.
So throw and catch or stretch and yawn
And sigh and know:
To have a lawn
Is Avalon.
Mow.

DO IT YOURSELF

Do It Yourself.
I Do-It-Yourself.
A creak in the table,
A crack in the caulking,
A deck that’s unstable
A dog that needs walking
Won’t do it itself.

So Do It Yourself.
I Do-It-Yourself.
When plaster is peeling,
When something won’t run right,
Whenever I’m feeling
It’s got to be done right
I Do-It-Yourself.

So I give it a shot,
And more often than not,
I get the supplies
And I do it.
Some problems arise
But I do it.
There’s gook in my eyes
But I do it.
I struggle along,
And whistle a song,
And it rarely is really horrifically wrong.

Take this doghouse.
No, it doesn’t look quite like the drawing.
No, I wasn’t precise with the sawing,
Yes, my pet got a puncture from pawing.

But I’ll fix it.
Not the dog, but the doghouse, I mean.
I can make it the best one you’ve seen:
So cozy and clean,
With a door that’s a screen
So the bugs won’t invade
And a roof overlaid
So there's plenty of shade.
It’s a model that’s made
For a mutt as demanding as Mr. Kincaid.

(Whistle).
(Whistle).
What fun is a castle
Without any hassle?
(Whistle).

And maybe it’s more
Than merely a chore.
It’s tedious, taxing
And terribly tiring
Yet oddly relaxing
And somehow inspiring

To give it a shot
And more often than not,
To get in the groove
And to do it.
Remodel, remove
And redo it.
Improve it to prove
You can do it.
When something you do
Does something to you,
You’re free,
And Do-It-Yourselfing itself is what does it for me.

…But it’s time to move on
Now that Mary is gone.
The going was rough
But we did it.
The times could be tough
But we did it.
I guess it’s enough
That we did it.
We gave it a run,
But now that it’s done
I know
It’s more that it’s time that I leave than I’m ready to go.

SUBURB

Looking for a place you’d want to call your own?
Looking for a place that’s always growing, not overgrown?
Searching for the finest schools,
Playgrounds and pools?
Sensible zoning with rational rules?

Looking for a place where tax and crime are low?
Might I recommend a certain spot I know?
So leave your everyday world behind.
Come and find peace of mind
By living in a town as wonderful as Suburb.

Jogging on the streets and sidewalks near my home.
Leering at the girl who slices pizza at Taste of Rome.
Whipping up an apple pie
Totally high.
Blowing up squirrels on The Fourth of July.

Following the voices deep inside my head.
Sitting in my room and wishing I was dead.
So leave your ev’ryday world behind.
Come and find peace of mind
By living in a town as wonderful as Suburb.

Coaching softball, pruning trees.
Body piercing, fake ID’s.
Weekday carpools, Sunday drives.
Spinning out our Suburb lives.

(The cop:)
My job is mainly small disputes,
Domestic altercations,
Police Department photo shoots
And traffic violations.
I answer false alarms,
Distribute parking passes,
And show my firearms
To kindergarten classes.

(The deli owner:)
How ya doin’? Can I help you?
Wanna try some mortadella?
Let me slice you up a little
With prosciutt’ and mozzarella.
If you really want a treat,
Try the deli down the street.
Pay a visit if you’re fond of ham on white with salmonella.

(The priest:)
The old people here are religious.
The young generation, not so much.
So I’m getting involved
And getting in touch.
There’s a “Rock ‘n’ Roll Mass” planned for Sunday,
There’s a “Rock ‘n’ Roll Bake Sale” on the eighth.
I’m keeping up with the times
And keeping the faith.

(The Brownie troop leader:)
Well, the Brownies are comin’ tomorrow.
We’ll make cute little cushions from burlap and string.
Then we’ll all bake some cookies with oatmeal and bran,
And go on a field trip to find me a man.

Doing business; fighting crime.
Raising children; making time.
Searching for a state of grace
In this green and pleasant place.

Looking for a place you’d want to call your own?
Looking for a place that’s always growing, not overgrown?
Searching for the finest schools,
Playgrounds and pools?
Sensible zoning with rational rules?

Looking for a place where tax and crime are low?
Might I recommend a certain spot I know?

And even if there’s no guarantee
Life will be worry-free,
When Armageddon comes its merry way,
Ev’rybody here will gladly stay,
Happy to be facing Judgment Day in Suburb.
Suburb.

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

They call me loud,
Profane.
My clients say I’m rude
And crude
And vain.
That I’m blunt and aggressive,
And my sales pitch is excessive.
That I’m manic, messianic and insane.

That’s all an act,
A sham.
They’re just too blind to see the me I really am:
Tender, shy and sentimental,
Quiet, passive, meek and gentle.
Yes, I’m meeker than a motherfucking lamb.

I’m just The Girl Next Door,
With thirty years more
And twenty more pounds on my frame.
Collagened lips
And post-partum hips,
But other than that we’re the same.
In that nasal drone
You hear on the phone,
Inside every promise and threat
Lurks sweet little Rhoda
Who’s sipping a soda
With Archie at Pops’ Luncheonette.

But somewhere along the line, that Coke lost all its fizz.
And whoever said life is a joke knew of what he spoke, ‘cause it certainly is.
I mean, I dreamed some handsome prince would find me, talk in French as he wined and dined me.
But I got stuck with three frogs who served me Fromage Whiz.

My life was flat
And stale.
That’s when the force divine
Sent down a sign:
“For Sale.”
And I swear I had a vision:
God was working on commission,
Selling Eden on a slippery sliding scale.

Now she’s The Girl Next Door
With buyers galore.
The home-selling homecoming queen.
Rhoda’s the rep
With pep in her step
From Carltons, tight pants and caffeine.
With all the cash I’ve got,
My exes can rot.
That’s one of the principal perks.
And now she’s imposing
A permanent closing
On a multiple listing of jerks.

Steve the Saint
Was cozy and quaint,
Which means he was small and he creaked.
Ken the Cold
Was stately and old:
A bad foundation, plus his pipes always leaked.
Don, adieu.
He came with a view,
But only had crawl space upstairs.
That’s it! No more!
No ex number 4!
No man is ever worth his repairs…

(Dance break)

I (She) was The Girl Next Door.
But not anymore.
‘Cause now I’m the girl with the keys.
Making the spiels
And inking the deals
And rolling in real estate fees.
It took me all my youth
To get at the truth,
But finally I know the score.
So if you’re stuck with a husband
In lousy condition,
It’s time for an upgrade
To six-point commission.
My office can always
Find one more position
For a Girl… Next… Door!

End