Have you ever noticed that when practicing a technique the left side doesn’t necessarily follow suit with the right? It becomes all awkward, like a newborn babe who has never kicked anyone, ever. My body, like yours, needs to GET. ITSELF. TOGETHER. Especially, my feet. That left foot of mine, is insanely…uncoordinated. And that’s putting it MILDLY. I’ve caught onto it’s wily ways and have decided to shame it into subservience with…a poem. Because, the best insults are the most well-crafted as our brother Willy Shakespeare shows in his plays. So, please, if you like the poem and want to tell your left to step off and get back in line, by all means, read this out loud to it.
O, bane of my quintessence upon which I trammel to the mats,
I've become a pretzel.
I stumble! I fall! I trip over you, scurrilous lout!
Your derision for walking, spinning, balancing,
Sends me to floor, a pretzel.
I kick right, but you, the left, refuse to follow suit.
You demand flirtation with my partner's shin, bone on bone,
As my toes crack, they are become...pretzels.
I say, "Go right!" but off to the left go you
You send me to the floor, a pretzel.
To trip over flat surfaces, an evil! Perpetrated by your plan,
To make the right one, the left.
Insanity! Calamity! Unscrupulous immanity!
I'd pardon you, but “I scorn you, scurvy companion.“
I'd cut you off at the knee. But!
I'd fall to the floor, a pretzel.
I demand you to follow the right one!
Don't pretend you know the way to go.
You flirt with my death, I parade my klutz best
Without any help from you.
I won't be a pretzel, no more.
Off with you now! Begone! Be free!
I've decided I'd cut you off at your knee,
Better to have lopped, than to have lost
My balance, my skill, my dignity to your wandering ways.
Left foot! You're done, making me a pretzel.