When Skizzors saw the house
Filled with many a fabric-y beast,
He wasn't at all pleased
To say the very least.
"My, what is all of this,
You've been busy haven't you?"
Skizzors asked unto him
With a face of utter gloom.
"Look at all of these monsters,
Why waste your good string?
You know I can't stand
For this kind of thing.
Just look at this bear,
Such evil red eyes,
Such murderous teeth,
Whatever possessed you to make such a thing?
And what is your obsession
With scary things anyway?
You're certainly no better
Than the monsters you create."
Hearing Skizzors accusations
By stone-cold means,
Stringthing's heart
Suddenly tore apart at the seams.
His hollow eyes full of tears,
Not able to stand it anymore,
With sadness and fear
He ran out the door.
Ragz ran after,
And all of his creatures followed behind,
But the man made of strings
Nobody could find.
Until Ragz looked on the ground
And found a trail of dead strings,
Which had quickly fallen out
From thinking stressful things.
YOU ARE READING
Stringthing
PoetryStringthing, a man made of strings, Lives a quiet life sewing All manner of things. All he wants is to share His creations with all, To bring a multitude of smiles Through his teddies and dolls. But he's all tangled up In what others think of him...
