The Poem of the Last Plank
He stood there, his legs bound, his hands tied, On the last plank with nothing but the ocean on the side In my hand was a gun, pointed at him, His chances of escaping were now very slim. “Any last wishes?” I deftly asked. “Yes?” he said sadly, his irony masked. “Spill” I replied, preparing to end him “I have a dog, I want you to tend him.” “Alright,” I said knowing I wouldn’t do it, “My cuckoo clock at home, I want you to screw it.” “The coffee from Bolivia, I want you to brew it” “Hang the picture of the Bay, alas, I drew it.” “Aye,” I said, giving out a sigh, “Prepare yourself, your end is nigh.” “When there is a gun to your head, you don’t give in,” “There are 146 options that you use to win.” “What?” I asked him and lifted up the gun. Fearlessly cocked it and said, “You are done.” I aimed it, fired it and drew a blank, He raised his tied arms in laughter. The poem of the Last Plank.