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Tyler Whisinnand Aug 2019
Doomed as he may be
For he is a baby
Lost unto the stars
He crashes onto a farm

Life does it's thing
For he has no king
Eighteen years pass by
The last son takes to the sky

He flies to the city
And he saves a little kitty
He takes to the sky
And he hears a mild cry
He flies to her cry
It's too late for she has died

He slumps at his work
For he is such a dork
Unbeknownst to everyone
The last son tries to save everyone
Tyler Whisinnand Aug 2019
Poetry is like a fine dress
For life's holy mess
Take a number
Pray for a slow slumber
For that fine dress
And ignore the holy mess

— The End —