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Poem

TaXiCabby 
As I was awaiting for the Bus Sun Tran, 
I noticed the thing before I had planned 
to etch this poem for all the land: 
to read. 
What happened then i can only inscribe; 
a fantasy man,a thought not unkind, 
but not planned, as ewe begin with this: 
to read. 
The Driver (The Cabby) 
 He pulled up in the lot. 
His Pistol he held and he shot and he shot. 
All of his bullets came every which way, 
but not one of them found me 
they all missed they mark. 
I was open to wonder and time. 
A fantasy fight is the thing that i had. 
Not a reality thing but just fancy of flight. 
What if they did that for real ewe may ask. 
Then I would have cleaned my poor britches. 
And not on the bus I would ride. 
I would walk so much slowly 
?until I could find. 
Some new clean pants. 
I wander and wonder. 
A fantasy man. 
The Cabby of Taxi. 
He rides.

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