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POEM 7 - The New Reaper
I pull up the knife,
Swinging down,
Into his stomach,
I begin to frown,
He isn't there,
That's pretty strange,
He must have known I was coming,
Oh, and I'm not deranged,
I've been hired by Satan,
To be his "private hitman,"
It's not good pay,
And staying in hell is like sitting in a frying pan,
I turn around,
And I hear wheezing,
The target is near,
Wind from the open window is breezing,
That's how I got in,
I climbed the wall,
So I could get here,
To the sixty-sixth floor,
I jump over the table,
And slam my knife behind the chair,
The knife connects,
Through the mans long, golden hair,
But it's now stained with blood,
I've done my job,
Now it's time to return,
To the demon I call boss.
Wrote this, once again, because I was seriously bored and I'm in a poetic mood.
 DaleLuck1313 · Sat Nov 11, 2006 @ 11:04am · 0 Comments |
