At the start of Wimbledon fortnight,
Every court is a pristine green.
The grass it seems has been combed,
Then groomed until it’s squeaky clean.
But as soon as the tennis starts,
Once the players enter the courts.
All that groundskeeper’s love,
Is quickly reduced to naught.
Because the serving of a tennis ball,
The tread of trainerd feet.
The slamming of rackets,
The tantrums of defeat.
Mean the once immaculate courts,
Now make the groundskeeper frown.
As their once verdant pastures,
Slowly turn a dusty brown.