Today I feel like writing a poem,
Maybe, about that little gnome,
The one who lives in the garden green,
And late at night it can be seen,
Wandering about the neighborhood.
I'd show a picture if I could.
But for reasons not yet understood,
(And I fear, may not be good,)
When I check my photos, he's not there,
No pointed hat, no bright red hair.
Just night sky and empty lawn.
That slippery gnome is always gone!
I reported him to the Neighborhood Watch,
But the job, they always botch.
No wandering gnome did they see,
Now they are all talking about me!
I reported it to the police near my home,
They'd catch that sneaky little gnome.
The nice policeman wrote it all down,
With the most serious of frowns.
I felt ever so relieved,
It's wonderful to be believed.
Now I sit handcuffed around wrists,
Waiting for the police psychiatrist.
I pray someone will pay my bail,
I don't like being in this jail.
I do so want to just go home!
My only visitor has been the gnome.
|
