The crazy man lives in the house,
He plays with teapots all day long.
They scream and holler with the man,
Who sings their crazy song.

The house is perched up on a hill,
That will solemnly and truthfully swear,
That nothing bad did ever happen,
“Everything is swell up there.”

The truthful hills hide fictitious blades,
Of grassy cells that know,
All work and no play makes Jack something something,
A brainstorm–well, whaddaya know?

But stormy weathers did cloud that brain,
Welcome Hurricane Frontal Lobe!
It ravished the teapots with only a whisper,
And barricaded the front of the road.

The end of the road is all that is left,
For the crazy man who lives in the house.
That may be upsetting, but let’s not forget,
The crazy man once had a spouse.

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Poetry

Published by LG Rogers

Writer. Reader. Guitarist. Music enthusiast. Also? I have a superior eyebrow raise. View all posts by LG Rogers