Franklin's Folly
As I cut the grass I curse Ben Franklin
He fell in love with France’s close-cropped fields
However, in the land of Kings and Jesters
Who never ate an orange wasn’t peeled
Knew not the toil of trimming, or re-seeding
Knelt before no one save for their King
Walked slowly the gardens of the peons
Felt not the thorn or hornets nasty sting
Strode beneath the banners of their quest
An ancestry of poison, knives and lies
Powdered wigs, perfume, a silken jest
To clip the wilting flower ‘fore it dies
Curse you Ben for being France’s pawn
For ever setting foot upon a lawn
John G. Lawless
©7/2/2023
Copyright © John Lawless | Year Posted 2023
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