He had, as Shakespeare said <br />at last he'd had it. <br />He closed the book to make <br />as clean a sweep as he could do. <br />It would, he hoped, clear up the ache <br />allow him access to his favourite brew, <br />but then, he slammed three hundred pages <br />half of the volume, down with a loud bang. <br />And saw too late (it's how our brain engages) , <br />the spider who was there, scout of a spider gang. <br />From the remains he made a postage stamp, <br />serrated, flat and pregnant with strong glue, <br />then used his tongue, it was a trifle damp <br />and sent his sorrow to the town of Timbuktu.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/timbuktu-2/
