It is finished.

Soooooooooooooooooo sore. I can barely move. And I think I shattered my knuckle. In other news, I think my boss wants me. Kinda creepy.

I am like one of those Vietnam vets
hunched over in a chair
A stub of top-of-the line manager material
Waiting for a spare moment
I'll pull you over
ask if you want to hear my story
before you answer, I'll begin
descriptions of the battlefield- humid, sticky, wet
Lakes of grease and unidentifiable substances
Mountains of broken down boxes and empty crates
And the front lines- four small but sufficient forts of colored plastic
divided evenly by our effectively carbonated weapons

Oh, the stories I will tell
years from now, when this is all a figment of the past
Stories of water fights, rotten apple catapults
scrapes, scars, and burns
and the man who made me laugh afterword
And every so often, I'll dive under a table
with a glazed look in my eyes
shouting random flurries of commands:
'First pitch of the 8th and we're down!'
'Don't leave till you clean the back!'
'Oye, What's wrong with the Co2???'
then I'll stare off into space wondering if the pretzels have been made
and whether the pizza is getting here soon
and when the guys in the back are going to
come back from their smoke break
so we can get the damn hot dogs made
And so it goes
the Charge of the Lite Brigade
Years later, the war won't be over
and I still won't be able to
identify my enemy
Cheers to a last-ditch war effort.