Exiled Poem by Stan Petrovich

They wouldn't tell me the island's name,
Just a shame I had to go.
No people were there, normally, only a boatload of hardy tourists,
Who may or may not have heard of me,
When for lack of anything better to do,
I inhabited a tree,
Making a gnarly disgruntled visage out of a broken branch,
And then blowing loud farting sounds their way,
As I watched them playfully look at one another and laugh.
But that got old fast:
I am never going to be a tree,
Not going to feel the air as they claim they do,
Or revel in the peal of thunderstorms,
As I watch envious and wait.
Soon the Emperor will call me back,
Probably to make an assasin out of me,
Like the time before;
It would be far better to get exiled
Than to see the final draw of the sword.