Chops

Chops

Musically inclined

Competitive

Social

Chops

Whether it be beating off,

To the sound of a drum,

Or stringing along,

To the sound of a guitar,

Or humming in tune,

To the sound of their vocals,

That’s where he’ll be,

With his instrument,

In one hand,

And the mike in the other,

Almost forcing it down,

Down his throat,

Whether it be,

Beethoven,

Playing with his violin,

Or Sir Paul,

His grey hair fraying,

Strumming,

Those old tunes,

That belong in a Yellow submarine,

Or Marilyn,

In all his madness,

His red hair, fighting,

That fire,

He cannot put out,

That’s where he’ll be,

Playing with his instrument,

Stroking,

What he knows best.

He’s like the public,

He’s like the ALL BLACKS,

He doesn’t like to loose,

They don’t like him to loose,

He expects to win everything,

He expects to win all,

He’ll put up that fight,

Stare down that barrel,

Begging,

On his knees,

To take that first shot,

He’ll face up to Arnie,

Say to him,

You may be back,

But I’ll be back first,

He’ll play tic tac toe,

Against the computer,

Starting again,

And again,

Refusing to give in,

That computer,

Aint no match,

For the brawn,

And the brain,

That is him.

In his head,

He is alone,

He can only ever live,

Completely with that one person,

Yet,

He can supplement that,

One person,

With two,

Or three,

He was born into a pack,

An alpha,

And others,

Oh I just forget the rest,

He was born into that pack,

Not to be alone,

Yet,

To enjoy others,

To enjoy their pleasures,

And share their sorrows,

He was born into that pack,

To fight,

To win,

Against all those odds,

To survive,

And go onto the next challenge,

And that’s where he’ll stay,

Comfy, and warm,

Licking his chops,

Cleaning his fellows,

Living,

His life,

Not as one,

But,

As half of two.