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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