My Favorite Shirt
My favorite shirt is ripping.
Years of fade couldn’t touch it,
Miles of use immaterial.
But the shirt continues to shred.
Preser- vation past its prime,
still, I fight against its final slumber.
Forces pull in common tug of war,
My lower back s t r i n g s away,
And the hood aches more.
Why must my favorite shirt pay?
I consider termination,
Does the type of shirt suit?
Forces work for a reason,
Should I give them the boot?
“No, the shirt remains,”
Declared by I.
Forces do your worst,
With scissors, this shirt can never die.
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