Musings of a yo-yo.
I ride the string and I obey;
I am a yo-yo, here to play.
I shall return--I’m yours to keep,
unless, of course, I choose to sleep
when I am spinning at string’s end.
(Come play with me--I’ll be your friend.)
Then give a little tug on string
and I’ll come up--I’ll do my thing.
(But seriously, as a yo-yo, I remain taxed
as I move about, yet go nowhere. I am
at the whim of playful hand, reliant on a
middle finger (usually) as I am whooshed
down in spinning fashion, spinning at a
dizzying rate, but then feel a sudden
which reverses my direction
without so much as a warning.
Don’t mind that I often break my neck...
oh, no, I am mere plaything,
a spool of hard plastic, an expression of
gaiety, a fallen angel granting enjoyment.
These ups and downs (infernal repetition.)
Oh, Mephistopheles would be pleased
because of my futile journeys, the
constrained latitude of my world,
the simplistic content of my insides...
I can only go so far! I am expelled by
wrist flip and I fly, like a Wallenda
on a trapeze, but glee is short-lived,
and I pockmark my polymer block
as sorrow reigns,
and I, again, ascend the string
like some smooth acrobat to
grimy fingers and sweaty
palms...but hey, I am
here to play!)
I am a yo-yo, flip me down.
Then at the end I’ll come around
but if you want me to delay,
then practice is all I can say.