The exercise:
Feeling a little sleepy today, so the starter ended up being: asleep at the wheel.
Mine:
Who put that guy in charge?
Is it 'cause he's so large?
Let me tell ya somethin':
Size? It don't mean nothin'!
Here's the thing that matters,
And it ain't who's fatter:
When spent shells start clappin',
You best not be nappin'.
3 comments:
I really like your poem, but I don't get the second to last line. What are the spent shells?
Asleep at the wheel
I can hear the drumming in the night
Ululating howls of savage fighters
The beat of unshod feet on hallowed ground
...I know it has to be be an all-nighter.
Come the morning when the sun is risen
And the fires have burned down low
It's time to flee this savage prison
Board the big rig, and off I go
The rumble of the rubber on the tarmac
Is hypnotic and I soon begin to feel
The arms of Morpheus embrace me
And so I fall asleep at the wheel.
Haha, oh dear. I *was* tired yesterday.
Let me just say that it made a whole lot more sense when one of the two preceding lines mentioned something about leading an attack. The shells are meant to be bullet shells, for the record.
I like yours as well. A more literal interpretation of asleep at the wheel, but still has your wonderfully unique touch about it.
Sleep is a get away from reality.
A relaxing drug,which we are hooked at birth.
Our aspirations, ambitions, and passions.
Moments to encounter peaceful dreams.
But also a rude awakening.
The dark,unknown, shadowy figures.
The nightmares.
They can snap you wide awake,
even in the deepest of sleep.
Either flying high or at death's door,
closest experiences to heaven or hell.
Seemingly nothing exists while you dream.
It can be a tragedy or a blessing to forget.
Regardless we all return to reality.
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