It tickles me,
With its cold hands.
Picks me up and carefully sets me down.
It follows me up the road,
As I run as fast as my legs can carry me.
But suddenly I hear it's whistling voice in my ear,
In a teasing tune,
Moking me.
I turn,
It runs.
The chase is on now,
I run at full speed.
But now it's just being mean,
Making mini hurricanes around me,
And dropping me to the ground.
So I go,
It follows.
I run to my room,
It knocks on the window,
Telling me it's sorry.
I ignore.
It goes away,
And the sun peers through the dark clouds.
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 1:29 PM UTC
It tickles me,
With its cold hands.
Picks me up and carefully sets me down.
It follows me up the road,
As I run as fast as my legs can carry me.
But suddenly I hear it's whistling voice in my ear,
In a teasing tune,
Moking me.
I turn,
It runs.
The chase is on now,
I run at full speed.
But now it's just being mean,
Making mini hurricanes around me,
And dropping me to the ground.
So I go,
It follows.
I run to my room,
It knocks on the window,
Telling me it's sorry.
I ignore.
It goes away,
And the sun peers through the dark clouds.
Copywright Clara McAdam 31 Dec. 2010/ 1 Jan. 2011