| » Poem: was a job |
was a job
written by lone-poet08:01 PM 2/23/05As he jogged down the street
Seeing people as he ran
Soon started to work up a heat
He found the house with the cheque
Got out his death stick
And started laying wreck
Then hands came big and strong
Ready to punish
For his wrong
They beat him down with a stick
Submitting to pain
He fell onto brick
Eventually he managed 2 stand
Only to be knocked down
By one smothering hand
He looked up, saw his foe
Took aim
And struck a blow
The hand was hit but not stunned
No matter how much he hit
It would not be shunned
The hand gave a fatal blow
And just like that
He was out of the show
Taken to a room where a hammer was hit
And in a wooden chair
He was told to sit
Taken to a land where grey walls are fashion
In a grey hall on grey tables
Bread and water is the ration
There he is told to stay for ever
There he is told to stay
For his life’s endeavor |
All (c)Copyrights reserved by the Original Author.
Author's footnotes and comments on this Poem:
i have 2 explain this ..the
"house with the cheque" is a bank and "hands" are the police or the authority the "room where a hammer was hit" is court also "taken to a land where grey walls are fashion" is prison. i decided 2 write like this becos i ws dead bored
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| » Comments / Feedback | by (guest) (2-23-2005 - 08:39 PM)
| wot did i tell u!!!!! ur a natural |
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