The brutal incline looked so steep,
It almost chilled my blood,
I wished that I was at the top, asleep,
Not at the bottom, where I stood,
But there was no time left for any drama,
No easy way back to my warm bed,
In my head I heard Obama,
“Yes, you can!” he said,
I swallowed hard and whispered,
To myself in silent reply,
“No, I can’t. I really, really can’t,
I’m probably going to die”,
A dose of reality hit me,
Straight between the eyes,
This was no game,
No time to be lame,
I had to keep my eyes on the prize,
Fuelled with adrenaline,
And a spoonful of Benylin,
I set off at a reasonable pace,
But soon I was cursing,
My lungs felt like bursting,
Like the blood vessels in my face,
With every muscle straining,
And my empty stomach churning,
I felt my willpower waning,
With the pain of lactose burning,
Then I saw the summit!
The warm and welcoming light,
Of my bedroom at the top of the stairs,
Which was now, finally, in sight!
I’m sorry Obama,
For making such a drama,
But it turns out you were right,
I could! I could!
Scale the hill made of wood,
And yet, there was still some sorrow,
In knowing that, inevitably,
I’ll have to do it again tomorrow
The Summerseat Skylark 