Speeed Poetry

Wheeee I fly through the rig

through the crowd made of wigs.

Fly through judged by the right wig,

by the left wig, no wig.

I proclaim to be rid of the rig where the court sits.

Wheeee I keep running, armed to cause harm.

I’m about to hit the target, press the button, and be done with it.

Wheee! Almost at the center. Almost there! The crowd is dense, unmoving, rigid.

I’ll make it move.

I’ll make it fly.

I’m here at the big fat red cross without a thought. I flip the red cap off and set myself off to go wheee along with the crowd…