true sport

This is a poem about Marching band, and how we work like everything else.

We run accrost the feild

from three until five.

We run to every set,

and theres over sixty five.

We have to go faster than any runner,

while playing better than any musicians.

we have to work through the hottest summers.

until we have to wear three pairs of mittens.

We dodge six foot tall metal poles

coming at us at thirty miles an hour.

aswell as wooden rifles falling from the sky

all while taking directions yelled from a tower.

We have to keep our posture up,

have to keep our notes supported,

keep our feet in time,

moving thirty yards in four seconds.

Backwards.

And everything we do is noted,

by six idiots up in the press box.

watching our every move.

And they judge us, on everything.

from our hair to our black sox.

If they don't like us we lose eveything.

We spend every day practiceing

just to impress these six a******s

You think it's so easy?

I want to see you try.