They talk to me all the time,
but I know not what they said,
their actions seem to be like mime,
do I appear to them as dead?
They see but part of me, myself,
the part that I reaveal,
the parts that I leave on the shelf,
are the ones they never feel.
If they knew what I was truly like,
how I think and how I am,
they'd be coming at me with all their spikes,
their claws out, slashing, "scram!"
So I cower in my shelter,
my arms above my head,
they go past, helter skelter,
I know not what they said.
\.\. Ironic Infidel././
Seven melons will fall from the sky, and prophesy unto the heathens, who will proclaim: "HOLY SHIT! Talking melons!"
Last edited by Ironic Infidel In England; March 24th, 2007 at 06:46 AM.
Reason: Spelling and extra stanza.