The following is something I just wrote. Yesterday, in one of my bright moments of creativity, I came up with a line. One that was so poetic and so lyrical that I just had to try and write something to accomodate it. Below is my attempt. I am not going to say which line is the “money” line, but I bet you could guess. And yes, it’s 1:47. A.M. 1:47- really early in the morning. The only people awake at this hour are the unemployed and the utterly insane. And I have a job. Oh yeah, today is my half birthday. I’m 21.5 years old. Human years, that is. I’m 32 in keplars!
Anyway- as promised, I humbly submit to you, anonymous (or not so anonymous…LARRY) Internet reader, my latest work in verse. Its working title is the “Lost Sheep,” but I am considering other names such as “The Sh33p” and “Pass the Mint Jelly.” Furthermore, I’m sure several different conclusions can be made from reading this. Rather than allowing you to form them yourself (Where’s the fun in that? You’re force-fed nearly everything else that composes your personality.), I will enlighten you. I’m not good at writing poetry. In fact, I daresay I downright suck at it. Well, “suck” is such a strong word…I feel that “blow” would be much more befitting. What else? Hmm…oh, and I probably have some deep-rooted unresolved issues with my mother. Nothing like Portnoy, but damn close. Although just to allay any suspicion, I will say that Kerry (or Kare-Bear, as I call her when no one’s around or listening to me) hasn’t tried to cook and eat me…yet. Bon appetit!
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I am a lost sheep, a lost sheep!
I’ve lost my mother,
have you seen her– Peep?
How can this be? Oh mother Peep!
You’ve lost me, and I’m your favorite sheep!
You’d take me to town,
you’d take me to fairs,
you’d parade me all about.
I was your trophy,
I was your treasure.
But Mother, where am I now?
Some mother you are, Goody Peep!
If my memory holds true, and I think I remember well.
I was your lamb until you took me to town to sell.
I was your trophy and your treasure, no doubt.
I was your biggest and fattest sheep,
the one you told your friends about.
A fair price for me you could not fetch,
So you kept me, much to your great regret.
When the hard times came to knock,
my head met the chopping block.
Peep, why me and why now?
Why not the hen or the sow?
What’s this? You haven’t lost me, Peep!
Why, here I am- on your china plate!
Next to the bread, baked with yeast.
What’s this? Me? Your favorite sheep?
Well, I sure hope you enjoy your feast.
once loved, then lost, and now ate…
Oh well-
clarity at last is clarity at least.
–Post over, Mikey out.