Rusting Irony

You labored neath a burning sun,

Despite the dirt and dust,
To mow the fields, so over grown,
Where you now sit and rust.

How vain the efforts of your life,

As ironies abound;
The grass you strove to keep well mowed
Flourishes all around.

Yet, still you rest there, in the field,
Surveying, mile on mile,
The pastures of your labors past
As grass grows all the while.