With apologies to William Henry Davies.
I wish to make clear that the sentiments expressed in this poem do not reflect those of the medical profession nor, indeed, those of the author but were suggested by a small, well meaning devil who sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear whenever I'm exercising.
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare;
If, looking back, our life has been
Spent on an exercise machine -
Or lying on the bedroom floor
Seeing who can suffer more?
Instead of pumping iron we could
Be blackberrying in our favourite wood.
A bag of chips between us, we
Might spend time gazing out to sea,
Watching Poppy and Daisy play
And soaking up a sunny day.
If it's raining we should look
To curl up with a decent book,
(Although, I'm told, it's best to keep
From spending too much time asleep).
Good work which strikes a chord. Personally I’m a big fan of exercise and can spend hours thinking about it.
I used to love all forms of exercise when I didn’t have to… enough said
My sentiments entirely John. One good thing about getting old is I do what I want to do. I was once a gym bunny but with PD alot of it has stopped. Do I miss it? not one jot
The problem is, if write of such,
same wee forked tail starts twitching here;
bewitching, chip on shoulder much
to do with crisps and beer - their fear -
as calorific counter mounts.
Reclining in my dozy chair
I keep expanders near at hand;
but only exercising dare -
expanding bands that brace waistband,
outmanned again by stone, pound, ounce.