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