A creak, a groan,
A little moan,
tick and tock,
goes the clock,
deep in the night,
the bug strikes,
without warning,
darkest morning,
intestines bubbling,
the victim struggling,
little feet in the hall,
suddenly stall,
eruptions begin,
again and again,
To the whelp,
I sprint to help,
no need to run,
the damage done,
my sleepy mind befuddled,
staring at a hall of puddles.
Ok, not really Poe caliber or quality...but a poem of lasagna and berber carpet at 1am it is, as noted earlier.
Ha! I'm impressed with any poem about lasagna :)
ReplyDeleteWell, since lasagna is one of my favorite foods, I should wax poetic about it more often. Preferably while eating some and having a bottle, er, glass of wine. :-)
ReplyDelete