His Therapy Is The Word Poem by Eillio Imbasciati

He lacks the stamina and happiness for a championship run,
So he just roams amongst the trees,
Knocking the wind out by punching at the air,
Not in celebration, but in frustration
It's a compliment to be competent,
But he isn't hearing much from these here trees,
Other than leaves that get left behind
The hot water isn't so hot, He's peeling rather than feeling appealing,
But his therapy is the word
See, he feels better already, although championship contention must be put on hold