Saturday November 12th, 2011

The exercise:

A four line poem about: the champion.

Kat and I finally got started with the cover crop seeds this morning. We got most of it done by the time our bellies began demanding lunch, and then the rain came around for a visit. Well, it rained here. Not so far up on the mountains it was snow.

It's only a matter of time now...

Mine:

Battered, broken, bloodied, and bruised,
He emerges victorious;
He'll carry those scars to his grave,
Isn't it all so glorious?

3 Comments:

Greg said...

Heh, so I guess the weather and the seasons are more demanding than any project manager you had to face at work? At least you (probably) won't have to dig away the snow to carry on with the farming!
Do I detect a hint of cynicism in your poem there? A suggestion that the champion might not be so wonderful? ;-)

The champion
Albert Campion was always champion
Until Susan Cutt broke his foot.
As he hopped his boxing stopped
And with a shout he got knocked out!

writebite said...

The Champion

Gold was in his sights,
One more lap to go.
First place was his reality,
He donated the winnings to charity.

Marc said...

Greg - not so wonderful exactly, more like the job doesn't strike me as being particularly worth it :)

That's quite the fight you've got there. I'm not sure I'd want to mess with either of the combatants!

Writebite - now that's more my kind of champion :D