The last leaves have fallen from their perches on high,
And litter the ground right up to ones thigh.
In their legions and armies they boldly stack
Small children and dogs have to turn back.
As he thinks of his wife it gives him the lumps
She can't go to work with leaves on her pumps!
He rattles the heavens with a mighty cry.
“If you weren’t already dead, now you would die!”
He straps on his vacuum, the dreaded El Toro.
(Which he had to buy since he couldn’t borrow.)
He falls upon them from hillock and gulch
And grinds the quivering foe to a powdery mulch.
Like the heroes of old he absorbs all his licks,
Leaf dust up the nose and bites from the ticks.
Still he lays about him like a ninja on narcotics.
He doesn’t care, he’s on antibiotics.
For weeks and weeks the grim battle roils
On and on the suburban Hercules toils.
At missing his football and baseball, he curses.
He is caught in an epic with too many verses.
As the Aeolian blast delivers the neighbors pile,
“I’ll bet they’ll miss their cat,” he says with a smile.
The bags of the fallen line the drive.
Oak, maple, cherry, none made it alive.
He shoulders El Toro and surveys the field.
He is glad he fought on and never did yield.
His chest swells with pride like mighty El Cid
Then his wife whispers: “Next year, hire a kid.”