Sixty years, well here’s to it, I raise a glass; into it, I spit.
Jerk my head to call him near, passed his glass feigned a cheer.
He swallowed with greed; saliva and all. I curl my lip; soon he’ll fall.
A drunk, a bully full of hate; tonight, they will see his colours
spread out on the dinner plate. I served tripe and jellied eels.
This food, both banal and grey; like him, had seen a better day.
I smile at those around my cloth. His cronies and the hangers-on
those that doff their cap, those that think him a super chap.
“Please sit” I cry. Having previously dressed his tripe
with little crushed garlic to disguise the arsenic’s taste.
It was with finality he gorged in ungentlemanly haste.
Today my cynical response to the terrible poetry prompt. It takes me to a sixtieth Anniversary gathering. I hope you enjoy. Please leave me a comment I simply love to talk.
Welcome to Writing Through the Soul. Every writer writes through their soul and I understand. Here you can read about anything having to do with writing. I share my writing tips and prompts. Enjoy reading my poetry, short stories and what's on my mind in the Writing Through the Soul section. I have something for every reader and writer out there.
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