I kicked the old tin,
down the road and it cried out,
‘oh, it hurts, please stop.’
How was I to know,
this empty tin had feelings,
and felt my kicking.
Sad to say, it’s gone,
it passed away, recycled,
and it may be back.
Can don’t really feel,
nor can they speak, so I’m told,
by the wheelie bin.
I’m trying to hide,
away from the madding crowd,
and calls for action.
Now the penny’s dropped,
and bounced back and forth and then,
it just dissappeared.
Voices do haunt me,
with bits of conversation,
and tone and accent.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I fell asleep and awoke,
to a page of zees.
