poem

received a wire.
the news was dire.
there was a fire,
flames leaping higher,
with help stuck in mire
that clutched every tire,
making us shout why’re
the roads not drier
like they were prior.
nobody to hire
for help to acquire
except one liar,
a bogus friar,
in the past a flyer.

every chicken we own,
now a fryer.

for Saturday Mix – Rhyme Time

3 Responses

  1. Sounds almost like a rap!

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