Between a Rock and a Hard Place
I met a guy in a bar named Frank. Really.
We went four-wheeling in his jeep.
Somewhere in the middle of
God-knows-where Wyoming, we got stuck.
The jeep angled down against a boulder.
The back tires spun in loose dirt.
He worked hard and I manned the jeep,
almost squishing him against the rock.
Whenever I hear, “Between a rock
and a hard place,” I think of that night.