I will lift weights,
run off my buns,
do sit-ups by the score,
maybe even four score and seven
in honor of Lincoln
before he grew old enough
to die so suddenly of a stopped heart.
That’s how we all go:
a stopped heart.
Not a bullet in the brain,
not matastisizing cancer of the postate,
but a stopped heart kills us,
lays us prostrate before the Gods.
We all go, so I’ll shoot for
four score and eight
just to be cantankerous.
I’m not to old for all this
fitness shit…
I’m to old to quit.
My wife says if I quit now
she’ll trade me in for
two thirty-fours
and she would, too,
if she didn’t love me so much.
So I will lift weights now
and run off my buns
and do sit-ups by the score,
honoring Abe and all
who came before.