Grass

Grass

I want to tell you about grass.

Not the sort of grass where soldiers lay

Cut down by bow and arrow,

Or by bullet or bomb.

Not the brown stuff either

That withers under the burning sun,

In a far-off country

Beyond the package holiday.

Not even the lush, green warm stuff

That hides some young girl’s giggle,

As the guardian of her secret

Is pushed aside for love.

I thought to mention the perfect grass

Where a ball will roll straight and true.

And bounce without leaving its mark,

You wouldn't even notice it was there.

No, the grass I want to talk about

Is the grass where the dog shits

And the tomcats piss

And men suck a stalk.