I never met a haberdasher I didn't not meet,

by BarrettBenedict

  • Poetry
  • Other

Published October 7, 2006

None of it makes sense anymore.
When cons start outweighing pros,
and hope becomes a screaming infant
tied to a stick and beaten
repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk,
and every day is like forty years
spent wandering the desert
with an unloaded pistol,
you can't help but wish
that you had just one
bullet to drink.

Comments & reviews · 1
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Jiggity
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Jiggity commented Comment · Oct 10, 2006

Um.
Whoa.
Talk about strange.
Weird.
Not necessarily bad.
Just weird.



It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another.
— JRR Tolkien