The Door Path Beater

I saw a strange thing, far away in a field.
As I ran and got closer, a machine was revealed.
It was a contraption that mowed down the grass,
Made with clippers, conveyors and pipes out of brass.
It rolled on a sphere of clear Plexiglas,
Full of water where swam two perch and a bass.
A belt sent the clippings (it was thick, bubble wrap)
Under a driver who was dressed in blue collar and cap.

The cut grass went up to a platform as chow,
To be eaten and converted by a chicken and cow.
The produce they produced, some milk and some eggs,
Was whisked to a processor behind their hind legs.
The eggs, all unlaid, boiled at one hundred degrees,
And the milked milk curdled into curls made of cheese.
At the rear of “The World” moved oscillating rakes
That Zen raked the sand like sidewinder snakes.

But the principal part was the giant fish bowl,
The reason to have it was to have that part roll.
Fins used for divers, each with a high heel,
Were stuck to the edge of this whopping big wheel.
The fins without feet made nearly complete
A path to a door, as they stamped and they beat.
Behind that far door was a better mousetrap
So beating a path means you won’t need a map!