Irgendein Depp mäht irgendwo immer [English translation]

When summer comes, it's not an easy going,

somewhere always some twit is mowing.

A mower Rambo mows me into my doom,

he's mowing through the walls, I can hear him in my room.

The emission of thick clouds of blue exhaust

brings him joy and ecstasy, at any cost.

He slaughters everything, and he is merciless

t'wards everything, that looks in the slightest like a blade of grass.

With lawn tractors or other noisy tools,

they are always around, those crazy fools.

From Oberpfaffenhofen to the city of Leer,

some twit is always mowing out there.

My neighbour has four nasty snappy fighting dogs,

they shit and bark all day, they chew my wooden clogs.

There's another neighbour, playing drums obsessively,

one cleans his car, while basses rumble constantly.

When having sex one husband's often battered out,

all that is not disturbing and not really loud.

But on the plot across, a grass blade annihilator,

a daisy killer and a hedgehog executioner,

a motor mower tyrant, a two-stroke nut,

a monstrous grass-exploiter starts to mow and cut.

He starts his motor mower, thinks that it's really cute,

to ruin vegetation with his phallic substitute.

When summer comes, it's not an easy going,

somewhere always some twit is mowing.

A real lawn fetishist needs neither drink nor food,

he only interrupts to check if the height is good.

He rages till the night falls down, till the sun is low,

of course he has a blower, for the grass to blow.

Thereafter, armed with blowtorch and a knife,

he erases every dandelion's hated life.

When the first sprouts show and the first green's glowing,

somewhere some twit is always mowing.

When the work is done, here and everywhere,

some twit is always mowing out there.

I'm sitting in a deck chair near the guesthouse „Island Bay“,

and I enjoy this lovely, mild, and peaceful holiday.

The siskin happ'ly cheers, the chaffinch sings its song,

a sniper cheeps behind a bush, a cuckoo comes along.

A bumblebee is bumbling, a bee follows a fragrance,

I hear a quiet humming from a mower in the distance.

A soothing, pious charm surrounds my being out there,

to trust in this deceptive calmness, I don't really dare.

The noise attack surprises me, my Landlady's the source,

she just started her mower, she handles it with force.

If devil's grandma, down in hell, would mow around their pool,

She'd surely mow her lawn like that, exactly with this tool!

When summer comes it's not an easy going,

somewhere always some twit is mowing.

With earplugs, safety glasses, steel-capped shoes,

he fights against the quiet, and he gives me the blues.

He fires a machine gun salvo with his big brushcutter,

and liquidates the grass roots, leaving a tremendous clutter.

He crushes useful earthworms with a grimly oath,

he fights for nature's law and order, and installs them both.

No begging can help, no whimpering, ooh!,

the next lunatic mowing fool is close to you,

to your left and to your right, and in front anyway,

twits are mowing grass, at any time of the day.

I try to lure Miss Ingeborg into my garden bower,

I play the robin and the love dove, investing all my power.

First I serve prosecco, then a liqueur, sweet and sheer,

she nibbles on confectionary, I nibble on her ear.

I hold her in my arms, we sink into the moss,

when suddenly, behind the bower, starts a hellish noise.

At first there roars a scarifyer, then sequentially

a vacuum, trimmer, chopper, and eventually

a tiller, plowing purposefully through the land,

and a chainsaw massacre as a highlight in the end!

So sorry, dear Miss Ingeborg, I'm getting dressed again,

such insane noises do not boost the stamina of men.

When summer comes, it's only easy going

inside the house, where you can't hear them mowing.

But the worst of all tortures is the abrupt,

sudden eerie silence, when the mowing has stopped.

Knowing it will soon start somewhere else for sure,

that's a nerve-wracking status, it's hard to endure.

You only know, when one of them has finished his show,

it's just a matter of time, till the next will start to mow.

Don't you know the song,

„The gardener is always the killer“? 1

I tell you, reality is much, much worse!

It is smelly, nasty, brutal, unfair!

Some twit is always mowing somewhere,

some twit is always mowing out there!

1. Another famous song by Reinhard Mey: „Der Mörder ist immer der Gärtner“