Puff Beaddy
3a9071f084
Co-authored-by: Puff Beaddy <puff@saltylab.local> Co-committed-by: Puff Beaddy <puff@saltylab.local>
99 lines
3.3 KiB
Markdown
99 lines
3.3 KiB
Markdown
# Sunday Lawn Mowers Symphony — Lyrics
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**Artist:** MoBead
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**Track:** Sunday Lawn Mowers Symphony
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**Length target:** 3:30–4:00
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---
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```
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TITLE OPTIONS: Sunday Lawn Mowers Symphony
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ARTIST: MoBead
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[INTRO — instrumental, ~12 bars]
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[VERSE 1]
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First Sunday in June, the dew still beaded on the grass,
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sun coming up slow over the cul-de-sac.
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I'm on the front step with a chipped blue mug,
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coffee black, no sugar, watching the morning yawn.
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Three doors down, a low rumble — pull-cord, pull-cord, catch.
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The green one coughs once, settles into a hum.
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Then the orange one across the street, four-stroke purr.
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The dog at number twelve barks at every start.
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A kid drags his bike out of the open garage door,
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bell on the handlebars, ringing for no one in particular.
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Sprinklers tick on the corner lot, a small applause.
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The neighborhood is tuning up. The conductor is the sun.
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[CHORUS]
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Sunday lawn mowers symphony,
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six engines breathing in different keys.
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Suburb full of slow musicians,
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nobody knows they're in the orchestra.
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Sunday lawn mowers symphony,
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my whole street playing the same long song.
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Coffee gone cold, I don't mind,
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I'm listening till the last note's gone.
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[VERSE 2]
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By eleven it's the full ensemble, every driveway in.
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The riding mower two blocks over — that's the bassoon,
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deep brass bellow rolling around the bend.
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Little electric by the hedge, that's the oboe,
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high thin whine threading through the low.
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String section: the trimmers along the chain-link fence,
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buzzing sixteenth notes nobody wrote down.
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Percussion comes free — somebody catches a stone,
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clatter-clatter-ping, the blade complains and forgives.
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Ice cream truck two streets away playing its tinny loop.
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Hockey nets pushed to the curb like cellos at rest.
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The whole of Oakville humming its Sunday hymn.
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[CHORUS]
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Sunday lawn mowers symphony,
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six engines breathing in different keys.
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The loud red one across the street
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keeps the tempo for the rest of us.
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Sunday lawn mowers symphony,
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no program, no encore, no ticket sold.
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Just the block and the heat and the cut grass smell —
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the only concert that mows itself.
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[BRIDGE]
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September Sunday, the air has turned.
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Frost ghosting the windshields by six a.m.
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Only three mowers running now, not seven.
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The oboe quit last week. The bassoon yesterday.
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A sweater pulled fresh from the cedar chest.
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Kettle on the stove a little more often.
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The orchestra is losing players, one by one —
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they're not gone, they're just packing the instruments away.
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[VERSE 3]
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Last Sunday of October. I step out, mug in hand.
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Half a block off, one mower running. Just one.
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The green one, the same one that started us in June,
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pushing a final slow lap around a stiffening lawn.
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No bassoon under it. No strings on the fence line.
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No oboe, no trimmer, no clatter, no bike bell.
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Just that one push mower, a solo nobody asked for,
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a soloist closing the season with grace.
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SAUL-TEE sits patient in the driveway under a tarp,
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workshop door shut — the saw respects the day.
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[FINAL CHORUS]
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Sunday lawn mowers symphony,
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one engine breathing in the only key.
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He finishes the row, he kills the motor.
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The whole neighborhood goes quiet at once.
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Sunday lawn mowers symphony —
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sleep well. We'll tune up again in June.
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[OUTRO — fade, ~8 bars]
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One mower fading down the block...
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garage door rolling slow to the ground...
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kettle whistling somewhere inside a warm house...
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and the long white quiet, coming on.
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```
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