Olympics
A thorn in the flesh of the green, green grass
Between the line painted straight,
And sometimes bended.
The reek of the starters gun so black
The bulge of the rippling calves, sometimes slack,
As spikes rip through the blades
Of turf so lovingly tended.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
