A baggage of cabbage slung over my back
It's starting to smell, but don't open the sack.
Cause for all I know it could be much more,
perhaps it will **** me, dead, onto the floor.
But as I grow weary, and my eyes get teary,
the sack seems to reek with despair.
Oh what the hell, I'll take a look.
To see what is really there.
As I come to find out, it was indeed what I thought
This "baggage of cabbage" has finally been caught.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
A baggage of cabbage slung over my back
It's starting to smell, but don't open the sack.
Cause for all I know it could be much more,
perhaps it will **** me, dead, onto the floor.
But as I grow weary, and my eyes get teary,
the sack seems to reek with despair.
Oh what the hell, I'll take a look.
To see what is really there.
As I come to find out, it was indeed what I thought
This "baggage of cabbage" has finally been caught.
Request permission to use this poem