These tines, thresher’s sledge
gouging flesh, tearing
chaff from stalk in one
smooth strike. Plundering
its benefits; as
empty hulls fall to
the earth, seeds awake
to freshly ploughed soil.
You can be a stick-in-the-mud, and rain on my parade,
Or pelt me with more lemons as I make my lemonade;
In trying to hold my horses, you’re wet blanket to my growth,
And pooping on my party while my heart is under oath.
You thought you’d burst my bubble when the dust settled for good;
But your hand was in the cookie jar, so now – knock on wood –
I’ll cool your jets by blooming well, rising above it all,
‘Cause where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and I built a firewall.
You bragged that I’d be pushing daisies, six feet under sod,
But I’ll not slow – watch me pass ‘Go’ – I won’t wait for your nod!