Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Feast your eyes, ladies and gents, 
on the spotlight, high up in the circus tent.  
We cross our fingers, hoping, in our fright, 
our hero stays on the tightrope tonight. 

Wait, that man's sixty-six years old,
and he has nary a muscle to behold. 
He doesn't not look so very brave
as he gives the crowd a sheepish wave.

His cholesterol is on a slippery slope -
too much butter, and he falls off the rope.
One more sweet?  Oops, his sugar level!  
Who offered it?  It was the devil. 

He's between a hard place and a rock.
Watch as he tries to put on his sock.
He's taking quite the frightening risk
of herniating another disc.

He climbs into his car with confusion.
All this traffic could lead to one more contusion.
The thought raises the pressure of his blood.
Oh my, will he fall down with a thud?

An impact of that intensity
would spell trouble with his bone density.
Each step he takes is filled with fear
as he clings to his health so dear.

Feast your eyes, ladies and gents, 
on the spotlight, high up in the circus tent.  
We cross our fingers, hoping, in our fright, 
all of us on this tightrope tonight.

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