The Rollercoaster

The thrills, the chills, the rollercoaster ride,
I never know from one day to the next.
Up and down and all around,
My back keeps slapping the Yo-Yoer's palm,
Painfully reminding me what tomorrow may hold.
Little ones like to laugh and giggle
Whilst feeling the rush of a 60 mile per hour coaster of fun
Gushing invisible shouts of air onto their faces,
Twisting and snapping their necks
In violent positions with every turn.
Can't you just hear them scream? I do.
I'm a child of the rollercoaster.
It's my calling. It's not so much who I am
As it is how I am,
And when the rollercoasater stops?
Well, I sob. I sob really bad. Almost inconsolably.
I hate being grounded and the feeling
Of my back being slapped by the Yo-Yoer.
It makes me want to shove a .44 magnum into my mouth
And have one last taste of Smith and Wesson's finest
Before everything goes pitch black.