Poetry

Whose gun is that? I think I know.

Its owner is quite angry though.

He was cross like a dark potato.

I watch him pace. I cry hello.

He gives his gun a shake,

And screams I've made a bad mistake.

The only other sound's the break,

Of distant waves and birds awake.

The gun is powerful, deadly and deep,

But he has promises to keep,

Tormented with nightmares he never sleeps.

Revenge is a promise a man should keep.

He rises from his cursed bed,

With thoughts of violence in his head,

A flash of rage and he sees red.

Without a pause I turned and fled.

They like shooting big guns

They like lots of alcohol

Driving big diesel trucks

They enjoy exploding things

Living out in the country

One afternoon I said to myself,

"Why isn't the kitten more sober?"

Do not forget the rascally and pixelated kitten.

Do not believe that the schnauzer is immature?

The schnauzer is old beyond belief.

Does the schnauzer make you shiver?

Does it?

When I think of the collie, I see a mangy herd.

"Woof", said the collie,

And "woof" then "woof" again.