High in his tower, the poet stood by the window. The sky was grey. There would be no stars tonight. The poet scribbled onto a spare bit of parchment.
I am only a mouse
And the world that
I call our house
Is a starving cat
I am as good as l am food
A truly awful offering of poetry. He fell upon his desk, groaning, sighing, regretting.
The kids on the street below pointed up to the poet’s window. ‘Booohoooo!’ they cried and scurried off, laughing and miming the tears of the pathetic poet.
seanpatrickwhiteley 