I don't want to be an old bag of sand,
Shapeless and heavy and a little damp;
Much too soft to independently stand,
And I’d sag—a marshmallow with a cramp.
I don’t want to be an old bag of bones,
Skinny and skeletal, crusty, sharp sticks
Stuffing a tote full of pointy unknowns:
A sad sack of toys that no one can fix.
I don’t want to be an old bag of tricks,
Gambols and gags in a package of plots,
With exploding cigars and rubber bricks,
Selected by charlatans casting lots.
I dodged these destinies, but I’m chagrined,
I turned out to be an old bag of wind...
Whether by satchel, a purse, poke, or pouch;
In the end, I’m a curmudgeonly grouch!