One would expect to walk on Fourth Street, And see a round man with a long moustache siting on a wall. But nothing EVER happens as one would expect,not when there is nobody to greet. Not when there is nothin to sit on, not even a wall.
Fourth street was big as a field, It had no benches, it had no flowers, and definitely no wall, It was a large area, with weeds that to death would not wield. Oh there was a rock or two, but all of them were part of the new stall.
There was maybe a pond, but nothing big. There was MAYBE an ant or two, But they were so well hidden, you'd have to dig. And the signs...the signs on Fourth Street....they were never absolutely true.
You could go right....and you would find you went wrong. You could go left....and well....you'd be stepping into a drop. The last person going through there was not very strong, He was just a little man, drinking just a little bit of pop.
He was small and round just like the other man with a moustache sitting on a wall, This one had none though, and he was walking not siting. He was round and small...he had feet and hands...and not at all tall. But most of all...he was not a lie....he was image of truth spiting.
He walked like a turtle, true.... But he was there all the same, He, his days did not rue, He showed no little sadness or shame.
He walked proudly like all men, Tried to run once a mile... Till he fell right on to the floor and clucked like a hen.... He would not get up....never...ever...ever....for quite a while.
DarkCat43 · Wed Aug 09, 2006 @ 01:36am · 0 Comments |