After working a few weeks bartending until 4am
And sucking down fried food hastily in a kitchen
The sleep schedule becomes
A little screwy
And the mind tends to become
A little cloudy
So I returned to my time-tested remedy
And ran when I could…and I found myself
At 4:30am in Central Park
With calm and steady strides and my past
Victories reignited in my soul and there I am:
800 meter Olympic final, about to win America the gold
Since Wottle in 1972
When a man passes me and I think,
“Don’t think so, buddy,”
And I sprint past and for the next 30 minutes
We’re racing neck and neck until I break him
And while I run away he yells,
“Thanks brother!” and I keep running
For another 5 minutes until turning into the bushes
And vomiting up chicken fingers, Olympic champion.
Next night my muscles are aching, trembling
And I knock a drink over on to a woman’s lap
And she shrieks, “This is a new dress you shithead!”
And the shift manager grabs my shirt and pulls me to the back,
Eyes bulging, “One more dumbass move like that and you’re fired,”
Spittle spraying my face, but I can’t help but smile,
And he asks, “Why the fuck are you smiling?”
And I want to say, “Because I’m an Olympic champion,”
But I say nothing and return to work.
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