Instead, this is what I do:I pull this crap out of my grass. It's called burr clover. It's "fruit" (using the word loosely) is a round hard sticker ball half the size of your pinky nail. That sticker ball breaks into segments and spreads burr clover all over. It also sticks in your bare feet.
I looked one day at the grassy median between the sidewalk and the street in front of my house. Large patches of this weed from hell, all knotted up in the grass, had established themselves with great fervor.
Since Monday, and that's all this week in case anyone is keeping track, I've been breaking my back and my arms and my shoulders and my thighs, everything except my head, struggling to yank this ferocious alien monster out of my grass. My grass loves the soil aeration it is getting as I stab my pointy sharp weeding object into the lawn and heave it all about.
I tell you, I'm breathing hard after my latest bout. I hate burr clover so much, I pull it out of my neighbors' yards. Do I have an obsession? Yes. But I prefer to think of myself as determined, as a fighter on the side of right, as a force for good in the universe, which, as far as I can see, has no need whatsoever for burr clover.
Then I come in the house, aching in every joint, and there's my cats and dogs and hubby, all comfortably lazing around on the furniture. If I were a cat, I would sit in front of my hubby like this:
I would stare at him until I drove him up from the couch and out into lawn. I would drop the gloves and the pointy object at his feet, and I would trot away for a good nap.