The day was the least prospective,
A chandelier fell on me,
My leg stuck in the tabouret,
Friday noon not the way to be.
Friday night is a-coming soon,
Me a-taken to hospital,
Head a-weaved into a weird cocoon,
Me a-felt like that frog spittle.
All my life has been stated here,
Is that life - with a troubled wife?
Walking under a chandelier,
Getting troubles, collecting strives.
I decided to make a coffee,
Dragged myself to the coffee space,
Where a huge, really sticking toffee
Bumped me right into my face.
There she stood at the bar just smiling,
With her all-aggravated things,
Dangerous as well as beguiling -
Made of sins.
(Made of sins!)
I decided to run away from her,
But it was all to all too late,
The Prospective of all this FriDay
Was A-Fate…
Prоspectivе
© Copyright: Пол Фил, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №222032900746
Свидетельство о публикации №222032900746
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