Muhammad Ali Bad!

I say what I want. 
If I smoked I would use a 
fire breathing dragon to spark up my blunt. 
Yeah I’m bad. 
Bad enough to sentence 
Satan to timeout in a confessional. 
My kind of bad is harder to find than a 
fugitive playing hide-and-go-seek 
with his own shadow in the dark. 
Harder to hold than your breath 
for ten minutes in outer space. 
I’m so bad that even my whispers 
end with exclamation points. 
If you have never played hot potato 
with the sun for fun, than we shouldn’t be 
having this conversation about whose bad is badder. 
Because honestly, I would much rather be 
in the middle of nowhere right now toasting 
marshmallows over campfires with my bare hands. 
Listening to the wolves howl and the bears bellow. 
Waiting until someone worthy enough comes along 
to remove me from this electric chair of a throne I rest in.