high school
who sits in his room
hunched over his books
and his big stack of papers
covered with A's.
You finish your classes and head to the court
and head to the pool, and the field, and the brigh
padded room,
And he?
He lays on the grass and tosses a disc
or sits on a bike and pedals around
and all the day long while he breaks not a sweat
you drown and you dig and you pant and you pass
and you shoot and you miss,
trudge back to your room and you're covered in it
and you teeter exhausted
edge of your chair
to complete the problems and finish the reading,
to rewrite the paper and translate the passage,
to keep your head up, fight fatigue of the day.
And he?
He sits in his carrel
showered and fresh,
and finishes homework for the week after next.
Amici comes
and you've got A's!
and B's and things in between.
He wears out his shoes on the steps of the stage,
but it looks like your roommate's a cobbler.
And you sit and you fume and you think to yourslef
so I got A's
B+'s and B's,
BUT I went to the court and I went to the pool
and the field, and the bright padded room
AND I drowned and I dug and I panted and
passed and I shot and I missed.
And i did all of this
that not for one week could this disc throwing
freak handle.
But 'his' shelves are covered with bright shiny
things.
Nothing inverted hangs on his door and his hems
are embroidered with ivies.
And your shelf is bland, covered with letters from
family and friends
"You've worked so hard... made us so proud...
Done a wonderful job."
It's nice and it's sweet and not all the same
thing
'cause your door looks the same as Saint Peter's
end
and your hems are covered with small little threes
and after four years this is the end
SO YOU'VE GOT TO HATE THE SMART KID
'cause it isn't fair and it isn't right
that he cheated and won and you hat him for it.
You hate him, you hate him, you hate most o fall,
that deep down inside, in the dark, in the night,
when the gentry's asleep and the filth take
the streets
when proper is gone and passion is here
when morals are lost and the end is quite clear
deep down inside...
you want to be him.
Poetry by Phill
Read 588 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2008-12-16 at 21:32
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You've got to hate the smart kid
You've got to hate the smart kid,who sits in his room
hunched over his books
and his big stack of papers
covered with A's.
You finish your classes and head to the court
and head to the pool, and the field, and the brigh
padded room,
And he?
He lays on the grass and tosses a disc
or sits on a bike and pedals around
and all the day long while he breaks not a sweat
you drown and you dig and you pant and you pass
and you shoot and you miss,
trudge back to your room and you're covered in it
and you teeter exhausted
edge of your chair
to complete the problems and finish the reading,
to rewrite the paper and translate the passage,
to keep your head up, fight fatigue of the day.
And he?
He sits in his carrel
showered and fresh,
and finishes homework for the week after next.
Amici comes
and you've got A's!
and B's and things in between.
He wears out his shoes on the steps of the stage,
but it looks like your roommate's a cobbler.
And you sit and you fume and you think to yourslef
so I got A's
B+'s and B's,
BUT I went to the court and I went to the pool
and the field, and the bright padded room
AND I drowned and I dug and I panted and
passed and I shot and I missed.
And i did all of this
that not for one week could this disc throwing
freak handle.
But 'his' shelves are covered with bright shiny
things.
Nothing inverted hangs on his door and his hems
are embroidered with ivies.
And your shelf is bland, covered with letters from
family and friends
"You've worked so hard... made us so proud...
Done a wonderful job."
It's nice and it's sweet and not all the same
thing
'cause your door looks the same as Saint Peter's
end
and your hems are covered with small little threes
and after four years this is the end
SO YOU'VE GOT TO HATE THE SMART KID
'cause it isn't fair and it isn't right
that he cheated and won and you hat him for it.
You hate him, you hate him, you hate most o fall,
that deep down inside, in the dark, in the night,
when the gentry's asleep and the filth take
the streets
when proper is gone and passion is here
when morals are lost and the end is quite clear
deep down inside...
you want to be him.
Poetry by Phill
Read 588 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2008-12-16 at 21:32
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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liz munro |
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Editorial Team |
| Texts |
 by Phill Latest textsSomething Less Than PoetryScar Tissue Musings #349 Musings #328 Musings #327 |
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