?

Log in

No account? Create an account

unlazypoets

Oh, come on...!

« previous entry | next entry »
Aug. 5th, 2005 | 12:21 am
mood: angryangry
music: Millenial Fair theme from Chrono Trigger, on SNES (but their soundtrack is actually very disappointing)
posted by: kiddalee in unlazypoets

There was a rich American who lived below the sky.
In spite of this his colleagues chose to place him very high...
For this American had worked for an amazing skill:
He had the power to decide whether disease would kill.

This Doctor, which we know him as, could stop debilitation.
His rival was cereberal palsy, known in every nation.
So taxing was his work that he could only do so much,
But he remained advisor to the foreigners with such.

One day, however, he received a movie from far.
The boy it featured, in his teens, had stretched as made of tar.
The failing of his spine could someday suffocate and kill.
The boy's surgeons, lacking skill, had made it harder still.

The Doctor then recieved some books of poetry from there.
All written by the boy, they had words which raised his hair.
Insanity and beauty, oh! Erotic sense and mirth!
No child could write such things unless he'd had a gift from birth!

A normal child the Doctor would have sent advice and left,
But let to die a genius when he was a surgeon deft?
He wouldn't dare, and so he cared to meet the boy himself
To offer him some surgery and fix his warping shelf.

The child agreed, for he could read and write while stuck in bed.
With this, the Doctor summoned colleagues adding to his head.
They straightened him right out, and now the boy will stay alive.
He'll write more poems with power to eternally survive.

The Doctor didn't do this for himself to gain the West.
Though he would die, the boy would still live after gaining rest.
This was the Doctor's greatest service to the artful nation.
A thing on Earth that won't decay is worth civilization.

Although this story has its fame on national TV,
Not one above the Mob has taken stock of what they see.
Despite the many twisted forms that made the poet cry,
His ART's what wouldn't let one claim, "This boy is soon to die."

What's wrong with you, you idiots? The boy is human too!
And so is every other child whose bones are wrenched in two.
I understand about the ones whose bones are only smoking,
But must one look like more than human to be saved from croaking?

---
^Based off a true and recent story.
crossposted to my own Lj

Link | Leave a comment | Share

Comments {0}