The Cannon

The cannon was graded as I peered inside,
It shot its milk that spilt on the other table
Called a world of dangers and words of doubt,
Injuries seemed like rain and ever so red.
This cannon magnificently heard the possibilities,
Sparkling breath was brought by the ignition,
An engine was a deception of the highest guilt.
Rich and uninterested was the man who shot,
Clever and dead were the casualties so fixed,
The derelict pier seemed so excited.

An ugliest sight remained on board the raft,
My funny feeling was that boats after ferries
Flung their cargo whilst the bolts were loosened
And smothering on the crowd of non believing mayhem.
The tender muscle fell apart, in the sense of bursting
And all it contains with cannon fire.
Goodness knows the careful craft
So alive and afterwards.
Sunday, February 2, 2014

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