Lyric Poet

Poetry by Brent Futo

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2003.

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Yes my friends, shocking though it may be, the Lyric Poet actually writes on occassion without the benefit of rhyme and meter!


Winners are losers who didn't give up.
Losers are winners who did.
Lovers are haters who stopped.
Haters are lovers who love the wrong things.
Friends are enemies that came to be known.
Enemies are friends unknown as yet.
Leaders are followers who got impatient.
Followers are leaders who just took a break.
Mourners are rejoicers who can't see the light.
Rejoicers are mourners who keep their mouths shut.
Talkers are doers who don't get around to it.
Doers are talkers with no time to talk.
Finishers are starters with just enough faith.
Starters are finishers ready to do it again.
Believers are doubters who overcame fear.
Doubters are simply believers in failure.
Builders are destroyers who wreck reservations.
Destroyers are builders who construct paranoia.

Crawlers are walkers who were knocked to the ground.
Walkers are crawlers who simply got up.
Runners are walkers who picked up the pace.
Flyers are runners who ran out of reasons,
to lose
to hate
to make enemies
to follow the crowd
to indulge in self-pity
to waste time with gossip
to give up too soon
to doubt their abilities
to construct limitations, and
to stop getting up again and again and again...

Winners are losers who never give up!

"I Want to Grow Old with You"

Growing old with you

I want to grow old with you.
I want to sit in a creaking oak rocker,
Complaining about the weather and my colon,
Yelling at those damned neighbors' kids,
With their loud music and mufflers,
Holding your hand softly,
As you tell me to shut up.
I want to grow old with you.
I want to drive dangerously into town,
Lumbering in my big Lincoln Towncar,
Cursing at those damned teenage drivers,
With their fast cars and chrome wheels,
Yelling as you pinch me,
And tell me to speed up.
I want to grow old with you.
I want to lie on my Craftmatic mattress,
Snoring as you try to watch the news,
Mumbling at those stupid anchors,
With their fancy hair and words,
Listing all the day's disasters,
As you tell me to wake up.
I want to grow cold with you.
I want to share with you my final moments,
Remembering every good time we had,
Gasping for my pained final breath,
With you there beside me,
Holding me so closely,
As you beg me to get up.