To Grow or Not to Grow

It's a wry morning
Once upon a first summer rain
Grass won't wake up 
For a few more drops
I haven't either

The Tropic of Can't Sir
Was my working latitude 
And without the boss
I make efficient do
In the electric desert 

Static clouds are smoke
From a fire's belly
Gas and ass and blunder past
Excuses stanch my nose
Breathing always was an option

Stay golden brown, sleepy blades
Green is overrated 
Upward labor is certain
To be cut down
By fastidious management smiths