Box
by flammeusgladius
The Box
I moved the box, sir, where your brains are stored–
and found it, in my aging hands, quite light.
A little curious, a little bored,
I moved the box, sir, where your brains are stored.
Right on the verge of praying, “Help me, Lord,”
I found it wasn’t much, sir, of a fight.
I moved the box, sir, where your brains are stored–
and found it, in my aging hands, quite light.
–Tom Riley