You want to keep the beat.
No one wants to be dead meat.
Life is rather bleak.
Because the heart is too antique.
The heart is a hollow muscle,
Being the size of my clenched fist,
Blood through veins and arteries,
That helps some one exist.
Pounding at seventy times per minute,
It doesn't use RPM's,
It weighs less than one pound,
When alive it's your best friend.
©1999-2021 Steve Bujanow