My fatherland land his name is Grimsby.
Although it always seemed a shame see.
Cos try as I might, to struggle and fight.
It's just such a bugger to rhyme with.
Simply, it be, will be, never more.
Than whimsey, of frisbee, in bigby.
Since she, Lizzy.
Will be, with he.
Jimmy, he be, things he, sometimes be, well Disney.
Miss Bea, she be, dizzy.
Years she, brings me, his tea.
Jimmy, convinced he, gimmie, his key.
Which be, for a chimney.
Skimpy, Timmy? He free.
he see, it be, still be, busy.
Years he, years she, years we.
King bee, wings beat, thrills me.
cheers me, forgives me, forbids me.
kim chi.
About the Creator
joe thompson
scfi lover, comic book geek, game nerd. Complete amateur trying to write something vaguely original.
Keep reading
More stories from joe thompson and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.