Well.
I had waited all year.
Like ever year.
And every kid.
Only a few more hours.
Anticipation suffocation.
Patience broke.
Tip-toed stairs.
Hallway.
Turned.
A shadow!
Rarrrrrr!
Tripple scissor super face kick.
Punch.
Gouge.
Bite.
Dragged the thief - out the door.
Tied the thief - to the mailbox.
Gave the thief - to the winter night.
So technically it was frostbite.
And I blame his small bladder.
And miscommunication.
But anyway.
That's how grandpa died.
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4 comments:
wow.....very very interesting....you must be really whacked out to be able to come up with something like that!
Oh my freaking gosh, that is the most wacked out/hilarious poem/rant ever.
reread.
register.
gasp.
laugh!
pause.
reread.
Clement Clarke Moore is rolling in his grave.
NEXT, please.
clarification of my last text concerning "ppl dying" meant- (your) characters tend to have a lower survival rate in poems written after 1am.
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