Dance card always full on demo day as we diligently pray for that right shade of grey.
Eight minute dating certainly done the right way helping you search for your gravity drawn sleigh.
Somewhere between a colossal brothel and a gender specific hostel certainly nothing remotely Pentecostal.
All lined up like candy in a kid store where nary a whoar is ever a sleepy snore.
We pay our dues so we can pick and choose trying to avoid the drowsy snooze.
What a grind to find the refined design we had in mind before we have time to chill and unwind.
Some skis blow chunks, others are slam dunks but mostly clunks, flunks and skis for punks.
Hey hey, there she is the turning whiz and winner of our slip and slide snowy pop quiz.
When you put the hammer down, she puts the smackdown exhibiting the genius of her holy breakdown.
Every run she’s a little bit stronger, please Mr. Technician Man, can't I have her just a little bit longer?
A cruiser over the slop and chop, any drop, hop or pop she’s never a flop, she’s a sweet piece of turboprop.
A skid to a stop, time for a pop, talk some shop and now time for home as we hit the blacktop.
Down the road until the next episode of all the new boards that must be showed, bowed and rode.
Still feeling the linger of that sweet ski’s finger, the synapses still pulsing and residually convulsing.
But, a little inkling has you thinking a feeling that is sinking, slightly stinking and brow wrinkling.
Did you remember to return those demos boards, you know, the one with all the awards?
Did you forget your old skis in a cold breeze after the usual end of ski day brain freeze?
Oh my goodness what a rotten memory, didn't I just get out of the penitentiary?
A brain without glue loosens and goes to goo. Oh well, whattaya gonna do?
Elope from the slope, a marriage made in heaven, gonna give it my all twenty four seven.
Something stolen, something new, something borrowed and something blue.