A Killer Smuggler
He keeps brandishing a sword
That sort of him makes a Lord,
Plus the Illicit gin they hoard
And his plane they’re about to board
That shall soon fly over a fjord;
To his territory of control, quite broad.
He keeps repeating that he is The Lord
To co smugglers – A horde,
In whom his words strike up a chord
But mainly witnesses to how his sword
Had into two cut a spinal cord!
Copyright © Chinedum Ekwobi | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment