Humor

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He writes his lines, and funny to,
All in a humorous way,
He never writes with all his jest,
They’d be too funny to say.
He gave his lines which he had wrote,
Unto his friend to view,
Two lines in he laughed aloud,
The writer was chuckling to.
Half way through he slapped his knee,
He roared above the crowd,
He clapped his hands while rocking,
As he laughed out loud.
At the end he fell prostrate,
And rolled about the ground,
The writer feared he’d over done it,
His friend lie gasping without sound.
He grabbed his hand and shook him,
Put a cloth upon his brow,
Tried to pull him to his feet,
He laughing, all the while.
The man picked up his papers,
Looked around to see who stared,
Slipped off into the shadows,
Left his friend just laughing there.

For fear of what could happen,
To the average Joe,
He hid his funny writings,
Deep down in a hole.
Ten years have passed, since that time
And bad is how he feels,
He saw his friend just today,
And he was laughing still.
Who’s to say, what would be,
If he wrote his funniest lines,
The whole world, could die laughing,
At the humor in his mind.

In the woods where he had hid,
This paper he thought dead,
The animals are all dieing,
They are reading what he said.
The squirrels no longer store their nuts,
They’re laughing all the day,
They can’t get passed the funny things,
That he had to say.
No birds now are flying,
No frogs will croak their croak,
For they to are laughing,
At his silly jokes.

Even the ground where on it lay,
Is ruined for serious talk,
No sooner a serious word is spoke,
Turns into humorous thought.
He fears that if he wrote,
The funniest lines he’s got,
The world would stop existing,
And it would be his fault.
So hide his words deep he will,
Deep inside his head,
From fear of committing murder,
If his writings were to be read.

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