It's a weekday and it's only eight o'clock;

here they come, they're just down the block.

There are those who work the evening shift;

now how are they supposed to get an uplift?

Cottin pickin', the noise of that contraption;

wonder how many are having a conniption.

We all know it's cooler in the morning, no doubt;

everyone needs their sleep, some do without.

Thanks for waking me up, that mower is disturbing;

can just imagine what follows, simply unrelenting.

I smell fumes, by golly the weedwhacker is here;

is it winter yet, surely that might sound a bit queer,

Oh my gosh, now it's that noisy blower;

don't think the morning can get much lower.

Grass clippings still wind up all over the walkway;

will they ever be more proficient, I say nay.

It's a weekday and it's only eight o'clock;

here they come, they're just down the block.

Gotta keep the grass nice, give life some spice;

guess it's kind of all about the way ya throw the dice.