Mister Trimmer

Oh, Mister with your trimmer

When cutting back a hedge

Just know your selfish actions

Will drive some o’er the edge

The noise and smell intruding

On terrace by the sea

Mucking up the breakfast

Planned by Nige and me

Eggs Royale a pleasure

But not when overlaid

With fumes from petrol engine

It’s not for this we paid

If you must do your gardening

Then choose a better hour

Your thoughtless, crass behaviour

Has left a taste that’s sour.

 

 

 

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