I’ve a friend
With a bucket for a head.
His desires
Are rather misled.
Or maybe it’s mine
Which tarnish these lines
And wished for
A cone friend instead.
If one
With a cone took his place,
If the bucket
Had left not a trace,
Then this blood-covered train
Of thoughts in my brain
Would never have
Once shown its face.
So when my
Bucketed friend lies his head
In the sun,
And on over I tread,
I’ll fight with my foot,
And I’ll make it stay put,
Cause I’d hate
For my friend to be dead.
Yet still, in the grass,
He has bled.
My brain once told me
To end him then and there.
The bucket he wore
And the calmness he felt
Lying there in the warm grass
Made it the perfect opportunity.
I didn't, of course.
Though, now I know who he really was
What he had been doing to someone
Important to me.
Now, of course,
I wish I had listened.
