bullpuppet

Still Waters.
Still skillfully willful. Still standing still. Still teething.
Still teetering on the brink of an episode, stowed away in the hamhold.
Still in the land of the bold and the zesty.
Still a pest.
Still a tool.
Still a jest and a fool.
Still drooling on your lobster bib, caught in a fib, and still the golden rule.

Still on a strict diet of carbohydrates and ruffage.
Still on scout's honor. Still crouching behind the fridge.
Still in a drawer with the baseball cards and twist-ties.
Still using hooks and eyes because buttons are too prone to popping.
Still copping a feel. Still popping a pain pill with every meal.
Still hanging from a rusty wire.
Still sitting on the top shelf and you can see yourself your soaking in it.
Still choking in it,
and still stoking up the fire.
Still buzzing and banging and clicking and clucking
and still stuck in the muck and the mire.

Still slipping through the crack under the door.
Still stiff. Still sore.
Still snoring on the peak in the upper bunk.
Still a chalky barrium aftertaste.
Still a broken hiccup.
Still swingin' on a chain in the brain basin.
Still chasing your tail.
Still skipping bail at the wailing wall,
and still the bear on the ball.