There once lived, in the forest green <br />a tribe whose attitude was mean. <br />They killed and maimed and robbed the men <br />who wandered by in groups of ten. <br />Word had spread quickly in the land <br />and to the King came the demand <br />that something needed to be done. <br />The King himself went down to see <br />and when he got there had to pee. <br />Behind a tree he hid his jewel <br />watched by the natives who were cruel <br />and out to shoot each poisoned arrow <br />into the flesh of Royal marrow. <br />The story needs to be aborted <br />the poet had to be escorted <br />away from this, a timid site <br />he'll sit in penance, overnight <br />until his senses do come back <br />if failing that he needs to pack <br />and tell his story to the Vicar <br />and leave us here to stir and bicker.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/short-story-2/
