Gallant Without Option

It’s all in the shoulders.

Every last bit.

I lift.

And I can’t stop.

My shoulders are so gallant; I can’t help but ferry a woman over a gender-barricading obstacle upon mere sight.

I carried so many woman down 12 flights of stairs recently that I had to buy new shoes.

It’s all in the shoulders.

And I can’t get it out.

The cost of shoes is one expense to cause my wallet to shrivel in fear; yet this is merely loose change compared to my outgoings in the cost of capes.

My capes; my capes.

Once the talk of the town and vocality of the locality.

Now they either wait for me patiently as hostages in my dry cleaners till payment matters are met, or they lay drowned in an irrelevant pool I could not bear for a good and find lady to dare dirty her soles within.

It’s all in the shoulders.

Not in the slightest bit in the swing.

My hopes that my swooping swing of a really rather dashing glove my give cause to the insulter of my latest and sudden beloved suffer an embarrassed cheek, rather than myself to suffer from one hand gloved and another gripping once-pleasing remnants.

My glove bill brings tears to my eyes and drool to my tailor’s chin.

I must work more on my swing, less on my shoulders.

But one cannot bear a weight in one’s swing.

Only cause a whooshing sound.

It’s all in the shoulders.

Rather than lifting; I think I’ll take up dropping.

Sam

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