Strange Red Plant
A very short and not entirely dark (or serious) story that’s definitely not a poem
Oh, look, said Murdoch, lowering his head,
There’s a strange, red plant beneath the shed.
I’d leave well alone, if I were you,
I replied to him, while sipping home brew.
Nonsense, he scoffed, it’s an easy trick,
And he gave it a jab with his pointy stick.
That plant wasn’t happy, I really must say,
It twisted and snarled like a wolf at bay.
Egads! cried Murdoch, it’s grabbed my thumb,
My arm’s all stiff and really quite numb.
I settled in a deck chair, glass in hand,
Took off my hat to let my face get tanned.
All the while poor Murdoch’s whining:
My arm! My leg! The damned thing’s dining!
Lunch might be fun, I couldn’t deny,
So I helped myself to some rhubarb pie.
Murdoch’s end came sudden and nasty:
Swallowed whole like a Cornish pastie.
I couldn’t quite tell if the plant was slurping,
Or, ill-mannered brute, loudly burping.
Then I espied to my great dismay,
Murdoch’s ghastly wife running this way.
You’re quite out of breath, my dear, I said,
Better sit down beside that rickety shed.
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