Saturday, August 12, 2017

Blisters on Your Backside

Riding along in your broad barcalounger,
Bucking recliner, couched in a crouch.
Waiting for nothing to silently happen, 
Hoping that something will make you worthwhile.

Parked on the sidelines of life’s little gambit, 
Chewing-tobacco stuffed in your pouch, 
Shifting but little to reach for your spit-cup, 
Grossing out children with vices so vile.

You used to run with the quickness of foxes 
So far ahead of the hunt-hungry hounds. 
Never a doubt or a question of capture. 
Smarter and faster, you lived for the chase.

Lately it seems you’re not up for the contest,
Don’t even touch your feet to the ground. 
Did you grow old or just get lazy? 
Hanging your head in defeat and disgrace.

You can just sit there petting your pride 
Trying to hide your unspeakable stunt, 
Rubbing the blisters on your backside, 
Or you can climb back into the hunt.

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