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