WRITblog

You’re just a little teardrop-shaped, dangling lump of skin,

That hangs down at the back of my throat with no clear next of kin.

You sway a bit, both back and forth, when I breathe in and out,

Kind of like a punching bag before a boxing bout.

You get swept back when I ingest those rich and creamy sauces

And then get tossed the othe rway when I am feeling nauseous.

Despite those minor obstacles I’m envious, no doubt.

Because it seems your only job is simply to “hang out”.