This land of yore, not far from our own
Is home to a creature, without wings without horns
It bears no resemblance to us, mind you this kindly
Its skin black as night, it walks rather blindly
Mind this once more, it has no wings and no horns
It feeds upon children and is quite forlorn,
It has no real likings, it takes no survivors
It's a miserable creature, a real contriver
What it contrives, I can tell you that not
For if I were to, I might forsake my own rot
Mind for the last, this creature has no horns and no wings,
It does however, feed upon your lungs and likings
How it does this, you ask? Well it's quite simple indeed,
It makes you weeze and you cough while you watch when it feeds,
How it does this, you might ask again?
It's stuck in your mouth, you refuse to abstain
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A lot of shitty poetry lately..
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John Winston Ono Lennon
Community Member |
Oct. 9 1940-Dec. 8 1980
Rest in peace, John Lennon.