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.