lets write poems

The old man pushes his machine
That lets forth a dull fury of noise.
He cuts down the young field of green
Through legal means, he kills their joys.

And then a thistle, tall and proud
Challenges the mower, loud.
Too big to cut, above the crowd
Or so it thought before its bow.

But when the dandelions spread
Through gentle winds change does blow.
The green replaced and in its stead
Displays the knowledged yellow.

The old man hauls his own regrets
His thick veins bulge in vain
As lions are tasty with vinaigrettes
But rotten flesh wroughts no fame.