An epic poem on civil rights and liberties.

My bullets have left me, oh boy. I found them in the cubbard. They wanted a revolution. They sang it to me in a song. I told them that I was not Ataturk, that he was dead and gone. Screaming, screaming they raped me with their eyes, crippling my thoughts and carressing my thighs.

Why, oh why have my bullets left me? I’m tired of these pancakes, I want to go home, where it looks vaguely like Rome. And there’s pie. I like pie. It floats high, in the sky, where it catches my eye. I’m allergic to rye. My daughter was eaten by a large and carnivorous fly.

The Republicans are coming, in their red coats, and without my bullets, I can’t support them, oh no. Especially now that the damn Democrats stole my boat. It didn’t even float. I shouldn’t have left it in the moat, but it was either that, or have it shit in by my goat.

I’m dying now, alas; Mein heart is made of glass. I miss my bullets, shining like brass. They had real class. Fredrico, the cute one, he was a gas. Now I’m just dying, like a Catholic at mass. Which sometimes takes place in grass. When I say that, people think I’m an ass.

My bullets taught me English. I used to know German, before I was saved. At first I ranted and raved, but then I caved. Because of them, my road was paved! Of course, it was only after I sweated and slaved.

But now, my bullets have left me. No more bill of rights. Why am I not legally allowed to get in fights? Without them, I can’t even protect myself from dust mites. I don’t even want to think about the Barrow Wights, or the Jews, and their plights. Am I even allowed to get in pillow fights?

Not that any girls would do that, oh no, not without my bullets. My bullets taught me to dance. They taught me the game of fisticuffs, that day in France. With them around, I wasn’t dour, I could prance! The armies of the Potomac could advance, and my jokes weren’t made by random chance.

The past is gone, now, just like Bush said. Bullets have their own lives, away from my hands. I don’t understand though, I wasn’t making any demands. I didn’t want to kill people, that was all, especially not the cute girl in the stands. Why is it that no one understands? I don’t need anymore reprimands, it’s making me wish to move to foreign lands.

It’s beyond me now, to wonder if my bullets will come back. Maybe, in my discipline, I was a bit too slack. I shouldn’t have gotten them all backpacks. I never should have taught them to talk smack. Especially the one I called Jack, better known as Daddy Mack.

Oh well, I still have my bull terrier regicide. Of course, with my bullets gone, and his poo, I feel like commiting suicide.

Brought to you by the society for “What do you mean, Graeme can’t write poetry?” awareness.