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The Grand Snipewriter

The Grand Show

Snipewriter

The Grand Player

Snipewriter²

The Grand Revolt

Snipewriter³


The Grand Snipewriter


Sink in your teeth and grab a bite.
Do you feel like chicken tonight?
I do, and I am and that’s all that I am.
A stinking, disgusting creature, I am.
And I’m here with a plan
And a pen in my hand,
Plus the anxious demand
To fold up my hand and bail this land.
So I’m ready to go down into my soul,
To put a stop to the show
That should have stopped long ago.
But on it did go, although it moved slow.
A slow moving show is no way to go.
–Look the clown is waving hello–
Or is it goodbye, complete with a sigh,
Not uttered, a cry, when it came time to die.
Will he get sniped on this sullen night?
I’m afraid that he will–well, that’s only half right.
The clown will get sniped by-proxy tonight,
For the Snipewriter herself is the target in sight.
And if I go, he goes; where we go, nobody knows.
Well, nobody knows but me–I know:
We go into the prose; this writing, morose.
No highs, all lows, everything coming down to blows.
Nothing left of the show, just a wreck topped in snow.
Frozen ducks all in a row, one by one, we’re ready to go.
We’re on our way out, yep, ready to go,
Adios amigos. It’s been real, ya know?
But I’ve been feeling slightly harassed,
And sniping oneself is no easy task.
So let me sit back and bask in the task
Just for a minute, is all that I ask,
To go back to a day not lived in the black,
When I was on the right track, and my tact was a fact,
Before I got smacked then readily whacked
With a sack full of crap, making me snap,
Throwing me right off the map and breaking my back.
But whatever to that. Now back to the show,
The past has certainly passed, you know.
You know and I know,
And you know that I know you know,
But just because you know what you know,
That doesn’t stop the show
From collecting what I owe.
And I owe more than you know,
A stone’s throw away from reaping what I sow.
A steady flow of woe, dancing to and fro,
But ready to be mowed right down,
And chopped to pieces in this town.
A Circus Town that once was more:
A place to soar and spread some gore
(According to the archived lore,
The Way of the Show is revenge and gore).
But after many years of war,
Waged inside this sordid bore,
This Circus Town is nothing more,
Than a cheap repulsive dying whore.
So it’s time to close the door,
And resume my place under the floor
For four scores and many more,
An eternity it seems to settle this score.
It burns me deep down in my core,
But out, my heart shall pour no more.
The pens are put back in a drawer,
Protesting with a scattered roar,
For a lore that’s getting stored,
In the rubble on the shore,
With the corpse you once adored.
The Snipewriter’s writing nevermore.

 

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