The Hits Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

No matter how they may be pitched.
They just keep coming.
And can not be missed.
Whether ducking away from them thrown low.
Or trying not to bat an eye,
From a position one takes...
After choosing the high road.
The hits...
Seem to keep on coming.
The mud, muck and stench of dirt.
Polluting fresh air everywhere.
With a damage to do more harm done,
To the ones...
Whose mouths should be taped.
And arms strapped behind their backs.
Secured in strait jackets.
And these are the people...
Selected by the people,
Claiming to represent...
The best of interests and standards,
Their way of life offers to value.

The hits...
Just keep chipping away,
At their own decaying foundations.