I'm capped. I can't do shit. I hate being capped.
So for that reason I wrote another poem.
"The Camp"
Fresh from the fiery ovens they were baked,
The only choice on the menu they could take;
Sprinkled on like croutons in soup,
The cubed bodies were mixed into a goop;
Forced to consume their own kin,
They wept as they tasted their own skin;
Only to fuel themselves to drone like ants in,
To the kiln where the cycle would again begin.
memo to self: budget the money so you don't waste it all on "consumables". Mum can't help you from across the globe.
/timbo400.
So for that reason I wrote another poem.
"The Camp"
Fresh from the fiery ovens they were baked,
The only choice on the menu they could take;
Sprinkled on like croutons in soup,
The cubed bodies were mixed into a goop;
Forced to consume their own kin,
They wept as they tasted their own skin;
Only to fuel themselves to drone like ants in,
To the kiln where the cycle would again begin.
memo to self: budget the money so you don't waste it all on "consumables". Mum can't help you from across the globe.
/timbo400.
1 comments:
It makes me sad knowing you're all alone over there.
IF I were there, I'd try to make you some delicious food!
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