Everything Turns Surreal
A sassy moon hangs in the sky,
the bar's full, and you're feeling spry.
And amidst the laughter and jeers,
the waiter shouts, "last call for beers."
This tavern is the best, bar none,
you'd love to stay, but have to run.
And so, you head out to your car
parked in the back; it's not too far.
And driving home whistling a tune,
you floor the gas; you'll be there soon.
And the car screams at your touch,
grinding the gears, you smoke the clutch.
Death reaches in and grabs the wheel,
then everything turns surreal.
For, with the sound of breaking glass,
you're thrown free, landing on the grass.
An infant was killed in the crash,
her small skull crushed upon the dash.
Your heart bursts in an anguished cry,
this can't be so; God let me die!
You are taken away in cuffs
to a jail full of cops and toughs.
And you think on what you've done,
all, for a drunken night of fun.
(Rhyme)
11/18/2017
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017
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