my stuff

I remember long ago in my youth, the first real good sleeping bag i bought.
It said it would keep me warm down to twenty below and it kept its word.
Still does
But when i got it home i noticed it came with a tiny blue sack.
From my knees i held it up, studied it, shook it.
No way this big puffy ball of warm was going in this thing!
But liking a challenge, i tried my best.
I tied it, rolled it, folded it, this way and that, over and over as the sweat beaded
and the FUCKS! flew bouncing off the walls.
Finally, i called the company to explain they had given me the wrong sack.
I could tell by her laughter that i wasn't the first to call in with this problem.
"that's why it's called a stuff sack, sir. you just grab a handful and start stuffing!"
That seemed crazy to me and against everything i'd ever learned, but agreed to give it a shot.
Sure enough, in a minute or so the bag was completely encapsulated in the tiny sack, tight as a drum.
I sat back on my haunches and marveled.
It seems this has become my life

a lot of stuff, ya know?
and me being a people, i figure i'm supposed to carry it all.
So i fold, roll, tie n tuck-but it don't fit.
Kinda like an ostrich who thinks just cuz his head is in the hole, his ass must be gone too.
But it aint. Its right there, just prime for kickin
So i stuff til it fits, but then it's like a possum, tits up three days on the highway.
A ghastly explosion is imminent and there'll be plenty to go around
So fuck the stuff
I'll leave it where it lies
Walk lighter
And leave the crows to to feast on the
bullshit i can't carry