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