POEM

By EMANUEL

 

The choice of rendezvous was not mine

I had to make at least a rhyme.

The poor, old Cicero is dead

The mighty science chopped his head.

…………………………………………..

How crazy was he in his elder mind

He wasn’t stuck in words, he had to find

Oh there were ravens, blood and despair

When science chopped his mighty hair

Why did you kill him, oh free thinker?

Find a gun in here I might not mingle

I’m a victim of fashion old Cicero had said

………………………………………………

When science chopped his mighty head

The smell of burned powder was in the air

When science chopped his might hair

The niece was only a few feet away, and then it hit

When big old Cicero fell off his mighty feet.

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