Lloyd Tietsworth

The sirens an exciting sound. Somethings flat that once was round. Someones fallen, cut...or choked. Fainted, maybe...even croaked. Warehouse burning? Cindered roast? Or a sinking off the coast? A truck, perhaps, has hit a pole... Wiping out some mortal soul. In the distance somethings glowing... Must be where the engines going. People shot or stabbed or bitten... or a small arboreal kitten? Why does each catastrophe, never get reveled to me? TeeVee, radio and paper fail to tell me of the caper, Secret mayhem...covert gore! What the hells that siren for?

This is a short poem written by a friend of my mother's.
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