Not a Choice this Sporting Morning
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009
Nothing wrong with my witts
We get along just fine
Run along and get hit
Beyond the finishing line
It seems to be diminishing fast
So you better beat it
You better dash like a blast
Surpass it undefeated
The hourglass is falling
The sand has reached the floor
And I don't think I'll hold
Your consionce anymore
For myself, or anyone else
For that matter
I'll leave it be, and you can leave to me
All the choices that batter
You down