Array ( [sid] => 178106 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Don't Run Out of Beer [time] => 2014-04-05 15:44:09 [hometext] => A weird piece. I am a loving father and man...my son made a funny comment to inspire this sick poem. Last line is funny. [bodytext] => “Honey”, she said, with concern in her eyes,
“You've got to let go, it's okay to cry.
But what are you doing? What are you at?
The big hole in the wall, what about that?”

“Baby”, he said, looking queerly askance,
“This hole is a coffin, my final last chance.
All six of our babies, our litter of love,
may they rest peaceful with the good Lord above.”

He continued to widen the space in the wall,
Deep enough for a person, if not overly tall.
At 42 inches and 24 deep, he looked at his wife,
saying, “Time for your sleep”.

The wife's eyes widened, allowing for fear
inching away while dropping her beer,
spilling on leather, soaking the laces
Twelve tiny shoes needed no more.

“Baby, I'm sorry! I had to go!
We didn't have any beer, that's no good you know!
Yeah, sure, they were bathing, but what can I say?
I ran out of beer, and the store is next door!”

“Well honey, that's funny, there was six in the fridge,
we had cold beer right here at Walnut Ridge.
I know it's a litter, these six kids that we had
But I can't live with evil, with a woman so bad.”

“I thought they could swim!” as terror swam up,
Consuming her face when he pulled out a gun.
“Sugar”, he said, softly to her, 'take this pistol.”
A barrel of black, bore ready to plough.

He moved to the hole, his back wedged inside,
tossed her the gun, saying, “Here you go killer, no need to hide.
You murdered my babies, and I want to kill you,
But I hate prison more, so as a killer you'll do.”

Hope returned to the rheumy eyed drunk,
she picked up the handle of the black heavy gun.
“You want me to shoot you, no problem with that!”
She pulled the trigger- boom! Brains a splat.

Then tossing her babies first one then six
on top of husband, her family a mix,
“Oh well”, said she, absent of fear,
“Thank god he told me we do have more beer.” [comments] => 2 [counter] => 96 [topic] => 7 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => HumorPoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Don't Run Out of Beer


Don't Run Out of Beer
Date: Saturday, 5th April 2014 @ 03:44:09 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: invierno
“Honey”, she said, with concern in her eyes,
“You've got to let go, it's okay to cry.
But what are you doing? What are you at?
The big hole in the wall, what about that?”

“Baby”, he said, looking queerly askance,
“This hole is a coffin, my final last chance.
All six of our babies, our litter of love,
may they rest peaceful with the good Lord above.”

He continued to widen the space in the wall,
Deep enough for a person, if not overly tall.
At 42 inches and 24 deep, he looked at his wife,
saying, “Time for your sleep”.

The wife's eyes widened, allowing for fear
inching away while dropping her beer,
spilling on leather, soaking the laces
Twelve tiny shoes needed no more.

“Baby, I'm sorry! I had to go!
We didn't have any beer, that's no good you know!
Yeah, sure, they were bathing, but what can I say?
I ran out of beer, and the store is next door!”

“Well honey, that's funny, there was six in the fridge,
we had cold beer right here at Walnut Ridge.
I know it's a litter, these six kids that we had
But I can't live with evil, with a woman so bad.”

“I thought they could swim!” as terror swam up,
Consuming her face when he pulled out a gun.
“Sugar”, he said, softly to her, 'take this pistol.”
A barrel of black, bore ready to plough.

He moved to the hole, his back wedged inside,
tossed her the gun, saying, “Here you go killer, no need to hide.
You murdered my babies, and I want to kill you,
But I hate prison more, so as a killer you'll do.”

Hope returned to the rheumy eyed drunk,
she picked up the handle of the black heavy gun.
“You want me to shoot you, no problem with that!”
She pulled the trigger- boom! Brains a splat.

Then tossing her babies first one then six
on top of husband, her family a mix,
“Oh well”, said she, absent of fear,
“Thank god he told me we do have more beer.”

This poem is Copyright © invierno


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