On Saturdays the grass is mown
Around the world at every home.
The men pour in the gasoline
And start the roar of their machines
And work the razor and the comb.
Time does not travel while they roam.
The sun shines brightly on the chrome
Sedans reflecting whites and greens
They trim the bush and rake the loam,
And think of outstanding loans,
And note their wives in tight-fit jeans,
And watch the oscillating teens,
Their ankles and their collarbones