Pink-skinned
missile-headed
remnant from a bygone era.
Your fists are concrete.
The faint smell of potato mash
wafts from your pores,
and you laugh.
Poor me,
leaf-fragile.
baby-small.
No match for
the evil super power.
But, with tutelage
and super punch.
I too can gain an
upper hand,
and put the devil
on his back.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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1 comments:
Okay, so I felt like writing something light today, and I've been playing Punch-Out a lot. I absolutely hate Soda Popinski, and to this day he kicks the hell out of me 8 times out of 10. I don't really think this poem is great, and yet another video game poem? Oh, well.
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