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Thomas Crone Dec 2012
As the temperature drops
Also  does my heart.
My motivation stops
Wishing for that new start
To show you I've changed.
The old me is gone,
My thoughts are hinged
On what I've done.
I can't show you a **** thing.
You're here in spirit,
I'm in a cell this Spring.
I don't have one bit
Of life left in me.
That one thing
That's been arranged,
I'll see you this Spring
And show you I've changed.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
You're beautiful,
I am too shy,
I guess I'm just
That kind of guy.
Your soothing voice
Sounds of angels,
Every time you speak
I feel so warm.
I have no choice
But to feel you,
To hold you tight
With all my might
I squeeze you
'Til you scream in fright
Oh what a sight!
Light up the night.
But I am sad, why?
I haven't the courage
To look into your twinkling eye.
This poem is about a very old, very beautiful gal. She was born Tula, Russia in 1934 and goes by the name of Mosin Nagant.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
From the sky she fell
Just kidding her soul she did sell
She's full of hate
She guards the gate
To the firey realms of Hell.
Her voice is of a screech
It's pitch no one can reach
Many fall to their doom
By her voice, to their tomb
Few ever live to tell.

A warrior must soon arise
To end the beast's demise
They must over power
Her thrill to devour
And claim her head for prize.
Her rein must come to end
Or forever we must defend
From kitties and pitties
Gargoyles in cities
Or retreat our life to the sky.
My extremely charismatic father married this overwhelmingly wonderful woman which whom this poem is about.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

Til the window flew open, the thief did commence

He stole the boy's Xbox, and the girl's innocence

He crumbled the cookies, knocked over a glass

The father came out; shot him in the ***

The mother was screaming, in horror and fear

She didn't notice her son, he opened a beer

The cat ripped the stockings, the dog ate the goods

While all hell broke loose, the thief ran, to the woods

The girl found the phone, she held it so fond

She dialed 991, the girl was a blonde

She then started crying, the boy stomped around

Until he passed out, and fell to the ground

The clock chimed twelve times, the conscious met fright

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

— The End —