The sun can only dig so far
while the other stars play big wigs
Having so many promises to renege
upon they say what they are,
job creators, they are those kings, czars
giving me this full-time gig
asking me why I never studied trig.
How bizarre

that it doesn’t hurt
I suppose Atlas is used to the abuse
Walking, running, these combat boots
Don’t run in the grass, or play in the dirt
and if you see a pretty girl in a skirt
pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes
though the point is probably moot
Nowadays it’s a concert,

left, right, repeat, but what
if there was a way not to be a slave
to the rhythm to live brave,
nut up or shut up
Only the ground has become a slut
for punishment and how depraved
is it for me to dig my own grave
one day and a time, a rut?

Copyright © 2017, Will A. Bradford Jr. All rights reserved.