by Narion Sharville
Much maligned myopic Malcolm,
meaning to mow the lawn in March,
missed that month but managed May
In the meantime, the grass had grown
monumentally much more.
Maud, meandering and meditating
among the magnificent Marigolds,
is mercilessly mown down
by the mechanical mower,
into minced morsels.
Miserable, mal-adjusted Malcolm,
missing Maud, muddled in mind, mopes,
muses on her mysterious metamorphosis.
Meanwhile, Maud, macerating
in her moist compost mausoleum,
is maturing into a malodorous