Popped Collar
This work shirt is moss on a tree for me, it won’t leave me. The collar is propped up, let it defend the wearer like a propeller. A lizard lays it’s dewlap down like a pilgrim’s collar after a while. The pilgrims get their own holiday but it party has to do with how friendly their collar makes them look. If they walked out the ships with spiked collars like some Road Warriors then maybe they would have saved some powder. When there is a long day ahead for yourself, you have got to turn it into an iron match and make it longer for the people around you. Turn it into a long week, a two thousand dollar job that lasts four days with no work on the lord’s day. You’re up on the score cards, the person approaching you is going through the longest fifteen seconds in the twelfth and it’s gonna take a knockout to settle it. Wearing a work shirt in the wild gathers people with hand outs, a favor before a hey or hello. The working man when he is not working is not resting, he is viewed as the helping man. His hands ain’t soft as the hamburger helper glove but is considered the helper during off duty. I have to keep the sleeves scrunched and the collar popped, popped collar. If this shirt wasn’t so worn then the points on the trapezoid would prick you. I’m not trying to be rude but look at me, I’m not in the mood. It would be more rude if I turned down the beggars with a fuck you. This happens to be mechanic work shirt but I’m not mechanical. I can repair a toy tug boat and a personal go-kart but that go cart takes the engine of a lawnmower. I’ve got a fucked up shoulder, I don’t wanna lift anything that weighs like a boulder. Dumb ole old people always need help lifting stuff, a scowl would come about without a doubt. At least offer the man some juice, it’s not like he’s walking back with the keys to the bakery. The popped collar roams with me during times where I’m free. My legally binded lunch, restroom, and go home to sleep breaks is when I’m free. The collar is popped like an Arkansas razorback running back with a horse collar. I’m ready mentally but all over the place physically. The next person to meet with me better have a popped collar at the one yard line. I walk alone just fine, my name tag is frayed so no stranger will know the name of the most unknown. Even the hitman that was sent down to get me by the taxman has a priest collar. You can’t walk into the suit store with it up, they’ll tie you down with a rewards card. The sun roof needs to close or else something will shit in it, the birds thinks that Xzibit put a kitchen in it. The hitman has a wired coat hanger waiting for me, custom fitted necklace like I won the olympics.