He loves the heave of the pick,

and thrust of the shovel and thrives

on the laborious drudgery of it all.

It calms his mind.

It makes his arms feel as strong,

as the muscles in the powerful

head of a Hammerhead Shark.

He figures women

might love him if he’s strong.

They always crave the scent

of his hard-earned sweat.

His hands grow callused,

enhancing his manhood

whenever he shakes soft hands

of men twittering on computers.

He always tells the ladies

he could love them enough

for both of them.

Dumb beast at heart,

he’s a muscle-bound sad-sack,

hoping they’ll miss him when he’s gone.

He still digs for worms to catch fish,

digs for water to quench thirst,

and digs for peanuts and potatoes,

so he’ll never know hunger.

Maybe he should go digging for gold.

If he becomes rich, surely somebody

will love him.

Now he’ll go hunt for truffles

and wild strawberries

to cheer up his weary soul.