Stymied repeatedly, first by guests, then rain, and, now,
An electrical malady, I watch the hedge grow out of hand.
I meant to subdue it today in the withering heat and humidity,
But my trimmer would not work. What else was I to do, but
Curse, and come inside, and have a beer, and tell myself
That failure, in this case, was welcome? Maybe tomorrow,
The tables will turn, and, sadly, I will succeed.