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irving-macphersonPoems
On his head   was tattooed            a number, While through         his mind flew                 destruction.. Over his shoulder blew Kong,     and upon Kong's war plate of torture,     and a vice gripped and girdled waist, with spikes tipped to rip any mans flesh. A chain mail vest webbed with deceit,    and acute, dispirited despair      lay sheathed beside his broad hips. You see him and terror grips,                when through his eye                   your eyes are reflected.                     What is your number. Guess all       you want,            it can't be read                 back to front                    in the mirror. It can't be scrubbed clean with the finest of lye. Your number is your number            and when it's up, it's up. © 2005 All Rights Reserved
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Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Number
On his head   was tattooed            a number, While through         his mind flew                 destruction.. Over his shoulder blew Kong,     and upon Kong's war plate of torture,     and a vice gripped and girdled waist, with spikes tipped to rip any mans flesh. A chain mail vest webbed with deceit,    and acute, dispirited despair      lay sheathed beside his broad hips. You see him and terror grips,                when through his eye                   your eyes are reflected.                     What is your number. Guess all       you want,            it can't be read                 back to front                    in the mirror. It can't be scrubbed clean with the finest of lye. Your number is your number            and when it's up, it's up. © 2005 All Rights Reserved
irving-macpherson
Written by
irving-macpherson
New Scotland
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
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