I created a monster. Of steel and wheels and tiny jewels, to walk in my place, to steal small things and bring them to me. He rolls his limbs across the country side, solar powered by day and determined by night. Looking for silver-light junk and interesting sights. And he’ll radio-rescue them, if conditions are right.
My monster can climb trees to reach the second floor. He can pick locks or break down doors. Guaranteed not to leave marks upon the floor. My monster does what monsters are for.
He makes a faint whirring noise.
I created a monster with no blood or shoes, he has no heart and nothing to lose. He finds me things, tells me things too. He brought me this, but nothing to do. So he went back out to bring back you.
My monster can climb trees to reach the second floor. He can pick locks or break down doors. Guaranteed not to leave marks upon the floor. My monster does what monsters are for.
He makes a faint whirring noise.
I created a monster with no blood or shoes, he has no heart and nothing to lose. He finds me things, tells me things too. He brought me this, but nothing to do. So he went back out to bring back you.
2 comments:
Songs are the butterflies of the soul and poems are the moths. Dragonflies are limericks and grasshoppers are a warm conversation between friends.
Don't you agree?
I like dragonflies.
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