I made a bad mistake a couple of weeks ago and got into a discussion about poetry with my good friend, Henry County Herald columnist Amy Eason. Amy likes poems, and was telling me all kinds of stuff about them in an effort to convince me that I should like them as well. She was fighting an uphill battle because I typically donít like poetry at all, in fact, the only thing I can imagine thatís worse than poems would be having Perry Como sing a few of them to me. Nonetheless, she made me promise that I would try to write one, and, that if I did, Iíd come to understand just how rewarding composing them can be. Based on her powers of persuasion, and the added incentive of a twenty dollar side bet, Iím going to unveil my first, and I guarantee you, my absolutely last poetic offering. This tender epistle goes as follows:
Le Poem De La Sweat
I sit here at my keyboard fair,
Sweat beads streaking through my hair,
I just got home from working out at the gym,
In a very vain effort to get fit and trim.
I wonder why it has to be this way,
Joints a-hurtiní and old legs that sway,
Iím breathing so hard, itís like a monsoon,
Iím sure I could inflate a hot air balloon.
As I worked out, I looked all around,
Amazed at the different type people I found,
I cussed the skinny people who donít break a sweat,
The more they eat, the thinner they get.
It doesnít seem right, yet what can I do,
Theyíre still real skinny, but my stomachís all goo.
And thereís a big guy, whoís puffing like me,
His sweatpants are too small, his gut I can see,
When he bends over to pick up some weights,
I think of full moons, the association I hate.
To my right is a lady, she works hard and tries,
No weight in her chest, but lots in her thighs,
Sheís standing there eyeing the sit-up bench,
If she lays down on it, we may need a wench.
Right straight ahead is a real foxy mama,
Her tan lines remind me of the Bahamas,
Her work-out outfits couldnít be more tiny,
If she makes a quick move, I might glimpse her heiny.
As for me, Iím on a Stairmaster,
A pretty good recipe for an impending disaster,
My legs are feeling like concrete poles,
If my brain were x-rayed, itíd be full of holes.
One minute goes by, then two, then three,
The water gods are all calling out to me,
My chest feels tight, my eyes feel glazed,
If I donít throw up, Iíll be mega amazed.
Finally, I finish, and I can go home,
And sit my butt down, to finish this poem,
Amy, my dear, I enjoyed this plenty,
Now break out your purse and slip me that twenty.
Well, hmmmm. You know, Iíve gotta be honest here, Amy may be right. Poetry does bring out a tender, compassionate side within me that I never knew I had. To be totally truthful, I really struggled hard from an emotional standpoint while writing this poem, in fact, tears almost came to my eyes several times, but, I fought them off in order to do my literary duty. I guess Iíve sort of become a true Renaissance man, scripting out tender verses like these. It makes me feel pretty good inside, to tell you the truth. I would go further, and maybe get into some pretty heavy dialogue about philosophy or religion, but I canít right now. I happen to be writing this on a Monday night, and RAW is WAR is about to come on. And, as we all know, even a true Renaissance man like me canít miss out on seeing Triple H in action...