Aw, You Just Sit at A Desk All Day

Swinging at the brambles

Cut to shit and coughing, sick

The work must go through

Sleet, hail, rain, death, etcetera

Popped a plant a good one and

Up comes a thorn just as

I’m snorting up snot

In the nose it goes, yee-haw

Down the nasal passages

Into my soft and sensitive throat

I begin cutting up internally

Coughing and retching

I throw up a mix of blood and gastric juices

And collapse to a bed of thorns

NEAL, NEAL, ARE YOU OKAY?

Comes a voice

I stand up, look at the puddle, shrug

Pick up my two machetes again

SURE