Murphy's Opus #  $!@?*

Never before
have I felt the good grace
of a warm weed-whacker
across my face;
whizzing and whirring
like licorice lace:
concerto cacophony
for the modern mace.

Given the fact
that it slipped my embrace,
who is the maestro:
the wire,
the whacker,
or my bleeding face?

As I face the music's
momentus monotony,
my bucolic briskets
become baptized botany;

blessed by
the benediction
of a beautiful elf
from high upon
the toolshed shelf.

It's Murphy's Opus
minus prelude
for preface,
thus helping
the cycle
repeat itself.