It’s been a bad week for the mower, and a frustrating week for poor Nick,

After two weeks of rain, the grass in the park had grown exceedingly thick.

I went out to mow it, armed with a sunhat, sunscreen and bottle of juice,

Not forgetting my vital piece of kit – a stick to ward off the goose.

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The first part went well, cutting through the long grass like a hot knife going through butter,

But soon I noticed a burning smell and the engine began to splutter,

A moment later from under the bonnet billowed forth plumes of white smoke,

And it appeared to me quite likely that my trusty steed was broke.

As I stepped down from the mower, I wondered about a truce,

A short-lived thought as I ran for the gate, hotly pursued by the goose.

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Nick was in the garden, constructing a new herb bed,

But he spent the rest of the afternoon repairing the mower instead.

He removed all the workings and sharpened the blades, it was clogged up with grass, ‘tis the truth,

He had meaningful chats with his helpers; the cat, and of course, the goose.

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Next day I finished mowing the park and moved on to the field at the back,

Just doing a very neat three point turn when I heard an ominous crack,

The steering wheel didn’t steer any more, it was all rather wobbly and loose,

So I went to find Nick, armed with my stick to ward off attacks from the goose.

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He soon diagnosed the problem, a joint in the steering had cracked,

I hope we can soon find a new one, cos everyone knows it’s a fact

That all this long vegetation is a great home for tics and for puces,

Which frequently latch on to Hugo, though nothing attacks that damned goose!

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Desolée pour les Français, mais je ne peux pas le traduire!