tagNon-Erotic PoetrySith Lord of Wyoming

Sith Lord of Wyoming


He strolls along the sharpened blade,
for he wears mail on his feet
and cannot feel the edge.

There is no blood in his soles,
anyway. I'm a fucking turnip, Scooter,
he likes to say, I'm a root

and underground.
I'm laid up food till 2090,
and, by God, they will have to eat me.

Without a ring, Sauron's,
that melted will destroy a snake,
there is nothing, other

than diligence and true contempt
left for us to try. Weapons, of course,
the Sith have studied, toyed with, mastered.

This is our most desperate hour.
Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi.
You're our only hope.

Survivor Poetry Contest
Poet's Choice (Free Verse)

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bypushkine© 0 comments/ 1307 views/ 0 favorites

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