Bleh, I had assumed my inner poet was dead but he's trying to influence me from beyond the grave. So here's a comedy poem for all those who need a new laugh. Inspired by an incident involving a mysterious fork that found it's way into my bed, and then my side.
Fear the fork
The fork will wait until you sleep.
Then down the halls it will creep.
Metal pronged messager of doom.
As it creeps into your room.
And as you sleep in your bed.
The fork by evil intentions lead.
While you lay there in peaceful slumber.
Peacefully sawing the preverbial lumber.
The fork shall crawl and creep to your side.
Find where you most sensitive rib resides.
Then lay by your side and try it's best.
To disrupt you and your well deserved rest.
Never underestimate the pronged one's might.
Or he'll find his way one night.
He'll wait till hours before you would otherwise wake.
Then for his own amusement's sake.
He'll wait until your about to roll by.
And in your tender rib he'll pry.
His evil prongs will poke and jab.
Those devilish points will pierce and stab.
Then when you report his transgression.
You'll find that he denies the confession.
He plays dead and remains idol and still.
And bends the authority to his will.
They will blame it on your innocent midnight snack.
And simply laugh if he should come back.
He may can fool them but I am to keen.
I know that deep down, forks are just mean.
So while I eat my steak people call me a loon.
But I remain loyal to my faithful old spoon.