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Joggers
by
Rusty Broadspear
Did they arrive in a meteor storm
One wild and primitive night?
Were the first ones delivered by parcel post?
Or an interstellar flight?
Whatever the case, we've all seen the face,
Bloated, purple, in pain.
Multi-coloured clothes on two wobbly legs,
In pairs, in groups, insane.
Taking over planet Earth
Infiltrating the Human Race,
We should organise a controlled cull
To put them in their place.
In the 'burbs or countryside,
Slick in smugness and sweat,
And if you ain't seen one with shades on his head,
Then you ain't seen nothin' yet.
Shellsuits, tracksuits all colours of the 'bow.
Stop one and ask What's the time?
He'll huff and blow, say I don't know,
He won't stop though and he's way past his prime.
When you see em close up they look knackered,
Like they've just crawled out of the grave,
Too late to send back where they came from,
Their persona is dead, too late to save.
I once knew a lady, overrun by this menace,
She took a gun to them only once in a while,
But she bagged the odd one then the rest were soon gone,
Then she would sit down in peace, with a smile.
Now, I've not mentioned the women of this peculiar race,
Whose boobs hang down to their knees,
With wrinkles of wrath all over their face.
Say Hello gorgeous, then watch everything freeze.
Early morning, midday or late in the evening
Spring, Summers, Autumns or Winters.
No getting rid of this dreaded disease
Of zombies, or joggers not sprinters!
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