I'm glad I'm an American,
but I sure wish I was freed
from this 20th century slavery
they call physical therapy.
I thought the surgery was bad enough.
Nobody bothered to explain
that the surgery was the "easy stuff"
and I didn't know the meaning of the word "pain".
Oh, it all starts very innocently;
they question, they poke, and they measure.
Then the smiles vanish and the whip appears.
This looks like one long forever!
They throw me in the cold whirlpool
and set a timer too.
I guess they know exactly how long
it takes for lips to turn blue.
And when the bell rings and they let me out
they always ask something dumb.
How the "bleep" should I know how anything feels?
My whole body's completely numb.
Suck in that gut, throw out that chest,
and straighten out that back!
I think the Marines just landed
and I'm the one under attack!
Now its 15 of this, 30 of that
and 50 of what I can't remember.
I think if I'm lucky I'll live long enough
to die with the leaves in September.
And if I had a quarter for each time they'd say
"Hang in there, it just takes time"
I could have escaped to the Bahamas yesterday
and left this dumb therapy behind.
Now bent, broken, defeated, and a bum
I tell my friends in the Midnight Choir
that therapy was easy, sometimes fun.
OK, so what, I'm a liar!
One final request for my tombstone to read
a simple truth that can't be rebuffed.
One warning for all the world to heed
"PUSHING 40 IS EXERCISE ENOUGH!"
Copyright © 1989, by Dale J. Abbe