Friday, January 16, 2009


Your ambition puts me to shame,

Little man: the constant forward

Drive despite the pegleg lame-

Duck scuffle of your awkward

Proto-crawl. And look at me:

Unshaven, unemployed and slack,

Going nowhere, pushing thirty-three

Like a shopping cart heaped with sacks

Of cans and bottles. No one'd blink

If all you did was sleep and shit

And smile, but you squirm like a skink,

Scoot off in pursuit of that bit

Of paper or plastic or fluff

In the corner—which I’ve neglected

To sweep up, stuck here on my duff.

Next thing, you’ll be elected

Class president, voted most likely

To go places. I’ll be at home,

Contemplating the unlikely

Prospect of writing this poem.

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