This is my response to the weekly Terrible Poetry contest prompt of ‘a humorous end to a useful object’.
Boris, as we called him,
made short work of our lawn in
no time at all for many a year,
his whirling dervishing music to my ear.
But one fateful day
his brain faded away
and chaos reigned on our green parade
as anything but lawn was flayed.
Boris charged and snapped dragons at full pelt,
(all the while how his innards smelt)
and mounted kerbs uncurbed
as he rose to the occasion so recently suburbed.
Just when I thought his madness was expended
and his carnationage had ended,
he climbed the bean poles, snicker-snack,
and gave the peas no chance, alas, alack.
There was nothing for it but the mortal blow
as my axe cleaved poor Boris’s fevered brow
and he shuddered and turned turtle
‘midst the burgeoning lemon myrtle.