To the driveway we descended
To make a decision
Should we face certain death
In the Land of No Livin'?
Or should we stay home
And watch Dr. Phil all day
His mustache is distracting
It lead thoughts astray
In the end, the decision
Was sort of made for me
A man driving a bus,
Aged four thousand and forty
It arrived with a squeal of breaks
And an ominous death-rattle
From inside, a small voice shrilled
"I'm gonna tattle!"
It's color was yellow
It's vibe was annoying
Inside me I felt
A sense of dread growing
The door swooshed open
With a hiss and a squeak
The wrinkly old driver
Hadn't moved in a week
On the inside I screamed
On the out, climbed aboard
It's the fastest way to school
I rationalized and deplored
Once inside the aging deathtrap
I wandered down the aisle
Passing screaming children
And a hobo with a pedosmile
One hour later
Chance of survival was bleak
When we pulled in the school
Our sanity mushy and weak
I hopped to the pavement
And sprinted to the door
But I ran into five people
And they fell to the floor
Standing in the hallway
Where we always stand
Were Venom and Jaybrams
And That Guy from That Band
"Guys!" I ran up and yelled
"We've got a situation!"
Venom gasped "Will it save us
From our torturous education?"
Jaybrams screamed, suddenly
'Cause she saw the zombie
So we ran down the hallway
Venom, Jaybrams, and Me
We chased it through the H-S
Screaming "CEASE AND DESIST!"
Ran past Eric and Ryan
And Joey and Chris
It ran up the stairs
And we cornered the focker
It made a mad dash for freedom
Straight to 210, my locker
And it's still in there
It's out of your hair
So fear not, and go STEALTH-KILL! Devin
But I've got a problem
And my problem is...
I'm late for English 7
Okay, I admit it. This is a terrible poem. It's rhyming is half-assed, at best. Rhythm? Nonexistent. But I do -- sometimes -- write serious poetry. Or some crap I make up that sounds serious. And, like, deep. That's why I've started a poetry blog (Accessible from my profile)! I haven't posted anything yet. But I'm going to. Like, right now.
Later much!
Signing off,
Sweet But Insane
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