Gene-Pool

Before his spa-crowd, 
the Brush-Cut endowed
his words with much lamentation.
“After making myself					
rich, strong, and svelte,
they want me to give up my station.”

He continued.

“No one helped me
crawl out of that sea!
I did it with grit, nerve, and drive!
Why should I cry,
bring tears to my eyes,
when Nature, through me, surely thrives?”

More.  God, still more.

“Should I be cast down
when dolts sputter and drown
while wading in water too deep?
We need to remember
Life wants to dismember
weak chaff from rare bits of strong wheat.”

Then (you’ll love this): 

He let his arms soar,
lifting muscles adored,
standing up in the midst of The Lost — 
but wet shorts do slip,
slide down on thin hips — 
and what Life rewarded...had cost.

I’m not one to laugh
at men —

breathe —

at men with toy shafts —
but I wasn’t the only one present!
With chortles of glee,
the wrong kind, you see,
we saw that his boy also...bent?

Thor’s grand self-made views
had been a bit...skewed —
Coy Fate had decided his game;	
his thoughts, teeth and hair,
his wants and his pair,
just gods doing their thang.	

Now don’t cause a scene,
or think I’m a queen — 
I’m not saying it’s all been decided!
But I’m tired of “studs”
nipped close to the bud
pushing “FREE WILL” without being chided!

So the next time you muse,
“I’m Awesome! I choose!”
remember Thor’s tiny “reminder”:

Fate casts the tool,
the job, house and school,
the cool and the fool,
the rule;

it’s always the loud,
judgmental and proud,
who most need the shroud,
the stage and the crowd,

whose heads should be bowed —

instead of being elected President.

*

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