My fingers <br />Are not <br />Fingers. <br />They do not <br />Fing. <br /> <br />I ask them to fing <br />All the time. <br />But... <br />They never do! <br /> <br />I beg them to fing <br />All the time. <br />But... <br />They never do! <br /> <br />I ORDER them to fing <br />All the time. <br />But... <br />They never do! <br /> <br />I threatened them to fing <br />Today <br />Or else <br />I will chop them in half. <br /> <br />They did not fing <br />And so <br />I chopped them in half. <br />They did not scream for some <br />Weird reason, <br />But I did. <br /> <br />It hurt. <br />Ouchywawa. <br />I cried for my mother. <br />But she did not come <br />Because I live in Arizona <br />And she <br />Lives in Antarctica. <br /> <br />So she did not hear me. <br />Now I do not <br />Have fingers. <br /> <br />Wait... <br />Without fingers, <br />How can I be typing <br />This poem?<br /><br />Bobert Smithsonian III<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-fingers-3/
