Emerald scythes dance amorously
in the cold moonlit night,
stretching razor arms
toward blinking stars,
swaying, ever so slightly,
with each steady breath of wind.
A battle cry is heard,
whistling a splitting tune
to signal the silent troops.
Blade after blade is raised high,
ready to fight, ready to win,
every soldier growing slowly,
gaining ground with every minute.
Soon they will overtake
the raucous nation of blooms
that stand sentry against the dark.
The underdog will have won at last,
thanks to a simple sprinkling
of grass seed.
