Knocked overboard by my brother the leech,
I awoke to find myself on a beach,
covered in seaweed and sand.
I’ll ruin his plans; I’ll fight and survive,
with no real supplies, I’ll conquer and thrive,
till justice I’ll demand.
On a tall windy hill, I built my shack;
out of the swamps; away from bugs attack,
beside the volcano.
On hilltops perch, my fire flashed to sea,
where those who search, could easily find me;
was lit by drill and bow.
Fresh water filled a hole from daily rain,
with Tortoise Bob to ease my lonely pain;
I bore my toiling stay.
In the island’s lagoon I speared my fish.
Each morn I arose by prayer and a wish,
to survive through the day.
Now in court I stand for jury to see,
the dark depths of my brothers treachery,
as the fear in him grows.
Thoughtful jurors moved to another room,
to quickly return, and lower the boom,
and send to the gallows.
For the Tropical Island contest.
Copyright © Christopher Bunton | Year Posted 2017