Erik (eriktrips) wrote,

  • Mood:

poem #3/100

I thought my glasses were crooked but it's my face.
I shouldn't have spent babyhood running in place.
In two weeks more the floor will fall through.
Instead of my chores I have figures to do.

This minute no thoughts are imposing their grace.
This way he brought a whip and a trace.
For only after great pains will the horse turn to glue.
For now please explain why this is not at all true.

It isn't likely that you could take up so much space.
It seemed no one had suitable shoes for any sort of a race.
One is uncertain at times if it is possible to be through.
One only commits crimes in multiples of two.

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