“Why don’t you shut your gob”
Yelled a heckler, at a man on a tram, on a phone call trying to talk to his bank to cancel his recently stolen credit card.
“Maybe I will” he muttered to himself under his breath, once he was put on hold, once again.
“I’ll probably starve to death in about a week” he pondering inaudibly.
“I bet you’d feel real bad then, wouldn’t you” he grumbled quietly, yet triumphantly.
“Well I won THAT one” he said to himself with a smile when he got off the tram.
It was the highlight of his week.
The end
Note: An alternative version of this fictional story went like this
So he did shut his gob.
Permanently.
About a week later he was delirious with hunger, and slowly fading towards the end.
“I bet that heckler feels real bad about now” he muttered out loud triumphantly.
Although, if he was really honest with himself, it was probably the credit card thief he was more annoyed with.
Later a neighborhood rat ate the pinky toe off his corpse.
Conclusion:
Poetry sure can be bleak!
Note 2: In no version of this poem did the man ever not get put on hold by his bank.
Conclusion:
Poetry sure can be bleak.
Join us again tomorrow, where the topic may or may not be - Is Poetry Bleak sometimes?
Wait, no that won’t be the topic, we’ve already established that. It IS bleak sometimes!
We’ve concluded that TRIUMPHANTLY!
Oooh, that means the topic is WIDE OPEN - exciting! Woo hoo!
