1. There are five or six push-mowers stuck in the shed.
I arrive at the job with one in the truck bed,
A shirt with no sleeves, and my worst pair of shorts.
Neighbors watching from their porch, they’re preparing their reports.
I do a circuit of the yard, removing rocks and sticks.
Not good: this grass is wet, long, and thick.
When you factor in my lack of sleep, the heat, and humidity,
You begin to see why I might feel a bit of antipathy.
Roll the mower down the ramp and I fill it with gas.
Never overfill it or you’re gonna spill it in the grass.
Start priming the engine, I yank the cord.
Three pulls, it coughs to life, thank the Lord.
It vibrates through my hands, blue puffs of smoke.
The rpms rise while I’m adjusting the choke.
I’m already sweating and I haven’t strayed from the shade.
I pull up on the handle and engage the blade.

Chorus: You snakes in the grass better keep your heads down.
The push-lawnmower’s coming back around.
Get low, get low, get low, get low.
There is no getting over getting hit with the mower.
You snakes in the grass better keep your heads down.
The push-lawnmower’s coming back around.
Get low, get low, get low, get low.
It’s the end of the road when you’ve been push-mowed.

2. I note the borders of the yard, mow around the outer edge.
Trying to avoid lawn ornaments and flower beds,
Bird baths, bird feeders, and a few ceramic geese,
And a handful of territorial and frantic bees.
Up along the driveway kicking up pebbles.
Down in the thorns, poison ivy and the nettles.
Welts, scratches, and cuts, cut grass stuck to my shins.
Bare legs bear the marks of everywhere I’ve been.
The grass so damp that it cuts unevenly.
Clumps under the deck, bogs down the machinery.
Down by the lake, up against that seawall.
Hit the dead fish while dodging the flat beach ball.
Side to side across the face of the steep hill.
If the mower doesn’t slide, I’m worried my feet will.
If they indeed do and the mower rolls on top of me,
I hope that I survive to appreciate the comedy.

Chorus: You snakes in the grass better keep your heads down.
The push-lawnmower’s coming back around.
Get low, get low, get low, get low.
There is no getting over getting hit with the mower.
You snakes in the grass better keep your heads down.
The push-lawnmower’s coming back around.
Get low, get low, get low, get low.
It’s the end of the road when you’ve been push-mowed.

Bridge: And a chill wind comes blowing in off the lake,
And I pause for a moment as I estimate
How much more time ‘til the job is through.
I’ve still got a fair amount of weed-eating to do.
And now I’m in a race with a first rate storm.
Overhead, the swollen black clouds take form.
I abandon good technique and pick up the pace
As the first fat raindrop hits my face.

Chorus: You snakes in the grass better keep your heads down.
The push-lawnmower’s coming back around.
Get low, get low, get low, get low.
There is no getting over getting hit with the mower.
You snakes in the grass better keep your heads down.
The push-lawnmower’s coming back around.
Get low, get low, get low, get low.
It’s the end of the road when you’ve been push-mowed.