Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Poetry Tuesday: Too little, Too Late.
So you think you can keep
Last night in. I smell it seeping out of pores.
I hear it creeping from your innards' doors.
I sense your liver's like a weeping sore.
Tic Tacs are not quite lies, but
They cannot save your hide.
To most of your neighbors, you are rotting flesh.
They're sliding in their seats, backing away on feet,
And peeling out tout suite from all that heat --
That death spinning 'round your breath's hot meat.
Tic Tacs are little guys, but
It's nice you've tried.