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

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