Sunday, April 13, 2014
Left
-Still have that 20% off coupon?
-If they return for us, we won't insist.
-Nobody's coming back.
-Afraid so.
-Lousy fuckin deal!
-Well...'ll be fast when it...
-Burns up? Hardly painless.
-I'm gonna write a poem.
-You? I've got more talent than you and
I've got none.
-So what? I'll write about us.
-Not even Dorine or Ginger will read it!
They're probably living it up on the new
planet with some obnoxious space goons.
-Not in our control.
-Nothing is. We're, like, totally screwed.
-I'll put that in our poem.
-Your poem. I'M, somehow, gonna fight against the fire.
-The world will know our story. All the worlds.
-Yeah. I'll bet they can't wait.
-I believe in my poem!
-Keep it up! I’m...really done. The rest is talk.
-That’s my title!
-And if they ever would rescue us, you‘ll never shut up!
-That’s right. You’re a doer, I’m a talker.
Labels: burning planet, last men, left behind, poetry
