HAHAHAHAHAHA. Don't bother reading, if you are short of patience. This has no point. No beginning, middle, or end. It's not even funny. I just needed to write it. It's so sad, and cheesy, it will leave you all braindead.
Knock yourself out.
. . . Fools.
- 8 -
You must all be thinking, "will this have a plot?"
I can honestly assure you, it simply will not.
My words are quite random, it can be admitted
To a mental asylum, I'll soon be committed.
Reading this poem will leave you dumbened for days.
It has no effect to stun or amaze.
In fact . . . everyone dies, I'm really not sure.
All I know is it will involve gore.
A poem, you'll agree, is something easy
To write, however, I'm feeling quite queasy.
You simply can't blame me, if this turns out wrong.
I don't even know if it will be short or long.
However it is about a remarkable lass.
She likes to think she's major kick ass.
Her last name is Simon, her first name is Suze,
She doesn't do drugs, smokes, gangs, or booze.
Her eyes are like emeralds, her hair is like . . . hair.
People think she's normal, but AU CONTRAIR
There's something not quite right about Miss Susannah.
I can't think of a rhyme, so I'll just say "banana."
No. The thing that sets her apart from the rest,
Is a special ability. Haven't you guessed?
She can see ghosts. She can hear the dead.
. . . Her mother wonders if she's right in the head.
Suze's tale is one both strange and wonderful.
Action, and romance, and danger are plentiful.
Her room was haunted by a ghost so hot,
That sunburn looked cold. Heat was just not.
"Hello, mi amigos, you may call me Jesse."
"I am a gentlemen. I'm never messy."
"I have a pet cat. His name is Spike."
"I have really cool spurs. I'm very manlike."
Suze and he got involved in some pleasing behaviour.
It happened just down in the eerie night graveyard.
They were kissing, and pashing, and . . . you know the story.
It was a brilliant moment of romantic glory.
But now Paul Slater, a shifter with dark intentions,
(Oh shut up, he's hot too. He must get a mention.)
Paul was a young man with a very quick wit.
He had an enormous, huge, big, large . . .
What? What did you think I was going to say?
You sick people . . . they should lock you ALL up one day . . .
Paul was back. He was black. He was angry. Was pissed.
My my, as we speak, he's balling his fists!
He wanted Suze bad. He wanted Jess gone.
Isn't Paul just a total moron?
So one day, at the Juniperro Serra Mission,
Young Suze was sitting in class, just wishin'
That Jesse could be there. That they could make out.
Coz that's what having a boyfriend's all about.
So while Suze was lost in mesmerization,
Jesse appeared in a shower of materialization.
In front of the whole class, he rushed to her seat,
And with a juvenile audience, he swept her off her feet.
The class gasped and Suze seemed to float.
"Susannah, my heart to you I devote . . . "
"I profess my love, with words so corny."
"I cannot help it, for I am h – "
Paul, an onlooker, stopped it RIGHT THERE.
"On guard, cowboy! Of Paul Slater, beware!"
He took out his sword, because . . . shut up. He has one.
But Jesse just grinned, and whipped out his gun.
Suze gasped, and she sighed, and she swooned, and she smiled.
"Oh Jesse, you're so handsome, so cool and so wild!"
The classroom of teens could not understand
Why Paul Slater had a large sword in his hand.
Neither could the author of this weird poem.
She needs to buy some petunias, and grow 'em . . .
. . . Um, sorry, I was boring you with flora . . .
"Stay away from my querida, Slater, I adore 'er!"
Paul rolled his eyes with a movement quite slick.
Which landed him in deep, deep, deep shit.
Jesse tossed his head, his lips twitched to a smile.
He pointed his gun at Paul for a while.
A sweat broke out of Paul's poor forehead.
"Oh, Jeez," he thought, "I am so dead."
Susannah was still sighing, and acting like a freak.
Until in jumped Father Dom, wearing . . .
"I'm a bird!" he squawked, "In the eyes of God!"
"My Lord . . . Jesse with a gun . . . how odd."
Indeed it was. The holy man was right.
Jesse with weaponry was a very weird sight.
Then, a tragic end came to our Mediator.
Father Dom leapt at Suze, and indeed, he ate 'er.
"NO!" Jesse screamed, "NO! NO! NO! NO!"
"I shall gun you down too, my cannibalistic foe!"
Paul took the opportunity to get out of the class.
Before Jesse REALLY decided to kick his ass.
Then in stumbled CeeCee, looking for fun.
Till Adam shoved her out the window, and into the sun.
"MY SKIN!" CeeCee cried, and cried, and cried,
"I'm too sensitive to sunlight! I will get fried!"
But her cries were ignored, and Adam soon gored.
And Father Dom was abhorred by the Great, Holy Lord.
Adam's corpse lay on the ground. This was a blood bath.
Kelly Prescott took a moment to barf.
It got in her hair. She screamed. No one cared.
Too bad . . . so sad . . . no one was spared.
All the lonely people. Where do they all belong.
All the lonely people. Where DOOOO they all come from.
You gotta love the Beatles lyrics.
They add class to my poem . . . pretty cool gimmick?
. . . So sorry, we'll continue? Where were we?
Oh yes . . . death, destruction. Lots of injury.
With Suze eaten, CeeCee cooked, Adam disemboweled,
Mystique Angelique finally stood up and made a vow.
"I obviously suck at writing this poetry gig."
"I think I'd better stick to Flashlight. I get a complimentary wig!"
"And plus – torturing Dani's so much more fun,"
"For Suze, and Jesse, and everyone!"
So Jesse dropped his gun, but was never arrested.
Because he was dead. Although Father Dom attested,
That Hector de Silva was a vicious gunman,
Forgetting that HE was also one, man!
But this poem ends in sympathy for Suze . . .
Who never again, will wear a pair of Jimmy Choos.
Where the hell Paul went, we'll never know.
Perhaps he's in hiding, somewhere in Moscow.
. . . I can't write poetry. Have we established that?
You can blame this whole thing on my reading "The Cat in the Hat."
I tried to rhyme. Is that SUCH A CRIME?!?!
. . . Crap. Gotta go. It's shower time.
Don't bother reviewing, I really don't blame ye'
If you all want to throw tomatoes at my failure.
This really did suck . . . so many innocents died.
Cry me a river. I care . . . why?