I really ought to shave, but perhaps I will write a poem instead.
Twas Friday the 13th
and all through the city,
fires rages to the north
it truly was shitty.
The casing of my sausage
had just sprung a leek,
did I even have mustard
things truly looked bleak.
poisonous fumes in the lungs
cut like a knife,
but for Brandon we know
red park is life.
The haze starts to lift
as back nose blunts are slid,
and troubles of the week
soon shall be rid.
Cupcakes and wine
to cap off the night,
perhaps Friday 13th
would bring me no fright.
Could I be wrong
or maybe half right,
is this the next morning,
or still the last night?
