It was the night before the famous day
When that befell of which I write. The house
Was silent as the dark: nor man nor mouse
Stirred anywhere. The weary children lay
Asleep upstairs, their stockings, after play,
Were hung beside the fire, with Mama’s blouse;
While, meditating on the morrow’s grouse,
I must have dozed my errant wits away.
At any rate, I had a curious dream
In which a little whiskered gnome in red
Came down the chimney with a set of Tennyson,
And perished in the flames. One tiny scream
And he was gone like wax or melted lead….
But for some weeks thereafter we had venison.
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Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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very nice. keep up the good work and oh burn you red fat man. lol
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That was very morbid. I do like it. It certainly qualifies as dark humor, that's for sure.
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Very nice. Paints a good picture.
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Oh. The gnomes? I think they are too closely related to clowns, and besides...they just stare all day...they cannot be up to any good.
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dude why dose that kind of stuff freak u out just out of cearyosity?
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it was great the funnest thing i have ever heard. its like one moment the gnome just sitts there then the next u see him combust and slowly aganizing pain he dies. it is the most awsomest thing in the world. DUDE. (reply)
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lol. Very nice pozo. I liked this poem. It doesn't make a lot of sense at first, but I get it now after re-reading it. Hah. Burn, little gnome!! Those things creep me out **shivers**
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cool
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i like this one alot
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