Replying to a comment on:

The Funnyman (Free verse) by Christof

He shuffled on, his shoes too small, His head too big. A golf ball on a tee, He peered once at the waiting stalls And fifty years of flogging round The flea pits, booze halls, ends of piers, Back rooms where the beer ran flat, Lodgings seen through a bottle end, Bulged in the bags of his eyes. His leathery tongue, the foot in his mouth, Tripped off a failing joke or two And the tepid applause we threw at him Bathed him like a tropical spring.

Britpop 11-Nov-02/6:01 AM
Some really good similies in there. Clever.




Track and Plan your submissions ; Read some Comics ; Get Paid for your Poetry
PoemRanker Copyright © 2001 - 2024 - kaolin fire - All Rights Reserved
All poems Copyright © their respective authors
An internet tradition since June 9, 2001