Email Poem

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Poem

Now, he is fed up with his rubber pistol,
Irrepressibly itching for Hard Metal:
To every onlooker crystal clear
That Kingsley has drowned his fear
Of spraying bullets 360o degrees
And blood stains bestowing a black grease.

Whom we should reproach I knew all along,
For Kingsley’s now roguish eyes and song;
For I had his doting daddy warned
Against having a bull belatedly dehorned:
The folly of over-exposing him to toys 
That would yield only Satan’s joys:
The slim chances of Kingsley’s young mind
Rightly guessing that he’s spiritually behind;
If it wasn’t some tasty, beefy meat
A special mind-blowing chocolatey treat
If not, milky juices you won’t find in town
Crispy wafers no one can turn down
If it wasn’t some eye catching software
About under-cover operations revealing a snare;
Some costly cell phones for men of title
And this GODDAMNED rubber pistol!

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