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Kevin M McDermott


Crossabeg, Ireland

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Why Do I do it?


Kevin M McDermott

To have a run can be much fun, but then I always knew it.
Though I cough and spit on every trip, I think there’s nothing to it.
Sometimes the rain comes pouring down and bravely I run through it
With soaking clothes and dripping hair, and I ask; Why do I do it?

I jog on by an old farmhouse in full anticipation
That dogs and joggers seldom mix in all of God’s creation.
Then one runs out and bites my leg intending for to chew it.
I shake him free with some choice words, and I ask; Why do I do it?

I puff my way up a long steep hill, my lungs feel under threat.
My legs they ache, my body bakes and my face is soaked in sweat.
A fly lands in my gaping mouth, and makes me want to spew it.
I slip and nearly break my toe, and I ask; Why do I do it?

A youth runs past me with a grin and says; ‘You’ll live to rue it.’
I cry ‘I’ll beat you any day’ as up the hill he ‘flew it’.
I put on a spurt, my God it hurt, my body cried; ‘Don’t do it.’
I had to slow right down again, and I ask; Why do I do it?

A girl jogged by with slender frame, her rear was most appealing.
She faltered as she reached the hill and behind her I came stealing.
She heard my step and upped the pace, I thought; You fool, you blew it,
But you’re much too old for girls like that, and I ask; Why do I do it?

Then the clouds broke up, and the sun came out, and the birds they started singing.
I’d reached the summit of the hill and nature’s smells came winging.
It made me glad to be alive, and feeling quite elated
I struck for home, my step was high, my senses had been sated.
I met a friend with fag in hand and round protruding belly.
He said; ‘You’re mad, you’re missing all the football on the telly’.
I looked at him, he’s half my age, his figure’s full of suet.
I think I’ve found the answer, when I ask, ‘Why do I do it?

Ode to Sciatica


Kevin M McDermott

Sciatica you’ve laid me low,
As down my leg from top to toe,
Your pain like tongues of fire from hell,
Just makes me want to shout and yell.

Last week I run o’er road and track.
This week I’m stuck here on my back
Can’t even wash my face or neck
My body’s now a hopeless wreck.

Outside my room the sun is shining,
But here I lie, helpless and whining,
And feel you burn my flesh with flame,
You, with your fancy Latin name !

I stuff myself with destalgesic,
As you try to make me paraplegic,
But down my spine and legs you swerve,
Sciatica, you’ve got some 'bloody nerve'