The Mower

I saw a man upon a sit-upon

Grass cutting round and round a bungalow.

Three score and ten he was, near Carraigbawn

And thought to myself, pray God I'll not go

That way, the glazed eye wide for the ending

Letting on to be useful, well knowing

It's over. With luck they'll find me tending

Bullocks, sawing in the haggard, hoeing

Raspberries in an old garden, upright.

Then I heard the finder's hidden voice:

What matter where you're found day or night

Alone or in a crowd: you have no choice.

And be forewarned the way I'll call and greet

I'll casually nod and tap delete.