Hello PoetryVoting

Vote

Voting-Boards

Home

HomeFollowingInboxNotifications

Read

ReadLiftedFeedsHeartedHistoryMy poemsNew poem

Explore

ExploreOrbitsWordsTagsClassics
Log in
0
Stars
0
Embers
0
Alerts
0
Inbox

Vote

Voting-Boards

Home

HomeFollowingInboxNotifications

Read

ReadLiftedFeedsHeartedHistoryMy poemsNew poem

Explore

ExploreOrbitsWordsTagsClassics
Log in
0
Stars
0
Embers
0
Alerts
0
Inbox

WHEN THE MERDE HITS THE FAN

WHEN THE MERDE HITS THE FAN

 

Our Sat. Nav's French

is eh...how you say

 

TRÈS TRÈS

. . .MERDE!

 

She transforms

Châteauroux into Chatterbox/

 

She morphs Le Harve>>>

into Le Have Her!

 

We can only laugh en français!

 

Streets with longer wording

become simply a slur

 

of wild guesses. More merde!

 

Here we be

on the road to Rouen.

 

Miss Sat. Nav. tells us it's the road

to ruin.

 

Aghhh...Paris pops up

Who put Paris there!

 

Even more merde!

 

 

We begun to distrust

Miss Sat. Nav.

 

She sulks for miles.

 

 

Insane we are

in the Seine.

 

Now we drive up

the Loire river.

 

Straight5 up the middle

with our high-lighted route

 

jockey along side us

in purple

 

like a riderless horse

winning the Grand National.

 

We cast her into

the back seat

 

make the ferry

( no thanks to her)

 

 

....ju....ju...just!

Request permission to use this poem
Written by
donall-dempsey
Published
Oct 26, 2016
Lines·Words
38·141
Permission

Request to use this poem

Tell donall-dempsey how you would like to use it. We review requests before forwarding them.

AboutBlogFAQPrivacyTermsContact
© 2009-2026 Hello Poetry/v27.0 by @eliotyork
Explore
Hello PoetryVoting
Write