| I made a bad mistake a couple of weeks ago and | | | | The more they eat, the thinner they get. |
| got into a discussion about poetry with my good | | | | It doesn't seem right, yet what can I do, |
| friend, Henry County Herald columnist Amy Eason. | | | | They're still real skinny, but my stomach's all goo. |
| Amy likes poems, and was telling me all kinds of | | | | And there's a big guy, who's puffing like me, |
| stuff about them in an effort to convince me | | | | His sweatpants are too small, his gut I can see, |
| that I should like them as well. She was fighting an | | | | When he bends over to pick up some weights, |
| uphill battle because I typically don't like poetry at | | | | I think of full moons, the association I hate. |
| all, in fact, the only thing I can imagine that's | | | | To my right is a lady, she works hard and tries, |
| worse than poems would be having Perry Como | | | | No weight in her chest, but lots in her thighs, |
| sing a few of them to me. Nonetheless, she | | | | She's standing there eyeing the sit-up bench, |
| made me promise that I would try to write one, | | | | If she lays down on it, we may need a wench. |
| and, that if I did, I'd come to understand just how | | | | Right straight ahead is a real foxy mama, |
| rewarding composing them can be. Based on her | | | | Her tan lines remind me of the Bahamas, |
| powers of persuasion, and the added incentive of | | | | Her work-out outfits couldn't be more tiny, |
| a twenty dollar side bet, I'm going to unveil my | | | | If she makes a quick move, and I might glimpse |
| first, and I guarantee you, my absolutely last | | | | her hinny. |
| poetic offering. This tender epistle goes as follows: | | | | As for me, I'm on a Stairmaster, |
| Le Poem De La Sweat | | | | A pretty good recipe for an impending disaster, |
| I sit here at my keyboard fair, | | | | My legs are feeling like concrete poles, |
| Sweat beads streaking through my hair, | | | | If my brain were x-rayed, it'd be full of holes. |
| I just got home from working out at the gym, | | | | One minute goes by, then two, then three, |
| In a very vain effort to get fit and trim. | | | | The water gods are all calling out to me, |
| I wonder why it has to be this way, | | | | My chest feels tight, my eyes feel glazed, |
| Joints a-hurting' and old legs that sway, | | | | If I don't throw up, I'll be mega amazed. |
| I'm breathing so hard, it's like a monsoon, | | | | Finally, I finish, and I can go home, |
| I'm sure I could inflate a hot air balloon. | | | | And sit my butt down, to finish this poem, |
| As I worked out, I looked all around, | | | | Amy, my dear, I enjoyed this plenty, |
| Amazed at the different type people I found, | | | | Now break out your purse and slip me that |
| I cussed the skinny people who don't break a | | | | twenty. |
| sweat, | | | | |