The Jogging Oap - Poem by Phil Soar
I see him every morning as he jogs the local paths,
I think his age is 83, but I'm not that good at maths,
He does look like he's past his prime, and puffs and pants a bit,
The faces he pulls as he runs around, looks like he needs a shit.
He makes me feel inadequate, and ashamed I'm not that fit,
I feel I should be jogging too, but think I'd look a twit,
I'd struggle running up the hill, which leads to God knows where,
I'd fall to my knees and gasp for breath, and gulp in tons of air.
Passers-by would speak to me and ask if I was ill,
As I lay in the gutter panting, at the bottom of the hill,
I'd rolled all the way to the bottom, after falling to my knees,
I'd reply with gasps, "I'll be alright, just let me lie in peace".
Meantime the older running man, passed by, and raised a smile,
He hadn't realised that I'd been lying there a while,
He tried to help me to my feet, and said I looked quite sick,
He helped me get up off the ground, and hit me with a stick.
He was a little mad you see, and maybe quite insane,
He then got out a rabbit's foot, and ran away again,
He said it was his lucky day, and he didn't want a fuss,
He stepped off the path and was killed outright, by a passing omnibus.
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