Falling off a roof of Pizza Haus
In the dead of noon
Shoes of pure sunshine
Laces tight
Rowing a viking ship across Cherry Creek
Collar popped
Dressed for G-d
We climb the lowest hills
Only to dig holes in our shins
Ice cream sneakers blazing
"Who is Larry Busch,"
We cry into the open wounds
And stylishly fret
Among chosen weeds
Staff held in highest regard
Towards the bloody mark
Malted and furious
Lichen spilling out of our lungs
Bruised
Beer-battered
Imperious and primed to thrust
We become awesome
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