Oxygen > Hydrocarbon

My old, atrophied lungs, 

The poor bastards, 

Sitting on the sidelines, 

Like two sacks of spuds. 

Hoovering up water and all sorts, 

Unconsciously, 

Thinking back to the dressing room, 

And the pleasure of, 

Being away from the action. 

Thinking, both, about the contents of their pockets, 

Their hands reaching down often, 

Thumbs twitching, 

And knuckle bones cracking, 

Like signifying pistols, 

In this cool and gorgeous

Natural Air. 

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