My head hangs low above the sink,
Ha, no, unlikely what you think!
True, there were times excessive drink
Did see the gut, recoiling, shrink.
Nay, far more happy time and place
Would best describe the here and now,
But weeds have overrun the fields;
It’s time to put the hand to plow.
’Tis head that’s needing to be shorn,
A humming scythe across the glade,
Or shearing sheep on frosty morn.
My tool of choice: the zero blade.
No victory until I die,
The onslaught merely staved, pushed back,
And when again the threat draws nigh,
My trusty blade will mount attack.
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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