Friday, April 8, 2011

Poetry from Grandpa

In the pod meeting they will take us
and the news they give will shakes us
the hens they have come...
to drink blood like rum
It's our eyes they want?
for their chickies so gaunt
I scream to them, "STOP!"
while my co-workers flop
and flip...out...drip drip drip...
they flip out from their gout
and blood sprays out like a crimson spout; their mouths gape open but no screams come out
our eyes are gone now
and jergen prochnow
has taken my copy of Beverly Hills Cop II