04/02/2026
I stand at the edge, so slender, so tall,
The last little soldier who never will fall.
You thunder and bluster, you huff and you swing,
But I’m the small nightmare at the end of your string.
You curve it, you spin it, you aim with a glare,
Yet somehow I’m still standing patiently there.
Your ball thunders past with a glorious crash—
Nine pins go flying… I don’t even flinch—just a scratch.
You mutter, you sigh, you question your fate,
“How does that pin always stand there and wait?!”
I’ll lean just a whisper, I’ll wobble for show,
Then plant both my feet like, “Nope. Not today, bro.”
Oh, blame it on oil, or luck, or the lane,
Or whisper sweet nothings to ease your own pain—
But deep down you know, as you stare in despair…
I live in your head now. I like it in there.
So step up again, take your best shot with pride—
I’ll be right here waiting… just off to the side.
