Whittle Little Bits Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Whittle little bits...
Off that chip,
Boldened to behold...
You carry as a boulder,
Upon your shoulder.
As if it's gold.

Get rid of it.

It doesn't compliment nor does it fit.
Your wish to be sophisticated,
But that chip sits...
Like a magnet's in it.

Get rid of it.
That boulder that you shoulder.
Get rid of it.
That chip doesn't fit.
Get rid of it.
That boulder that you shoulder.
Get rid of it.

Whittle little bits off that chip,
Boldened to behold you carry as a boulder...
Upon your shoulder.
You're getting too old to hold.

Get rid of it.
That boulder that you shoulder.
Get rid of it.
That chip doesn't fit.
Get rid of it.
That boulder that you shoulder.
You're getting too old to hold,
So...
Get rid of it.
That boulder that you shoulder.
Get rid of it.
That chip doesn't fit.
Get rid of it.
That boulder that you shoulder.
You're getting too old to hold,
So...
Get rid of it.
With whittled little bits.
Get rid of it.
With whittled little bits.
Get rid of it.
With whittled little bits.
That chip has gotten old.