Poem for Conor

1 03 2011

Something I wrote for/about my friend Conor a few years ago.  Ah, the memories.   I remember I didn’t have enough time to write a proper ending but oh well.  Here it is in its unfinished glory.

Untitled

Conor is always late.
Many minutes I have to wait.
I wonder if this is fate,
Cuz Conor is always late.

The time I did not choose
And yet I always lose.
Maybe he’s having a snooze,
or out drinking some booze.

Does he know where I’m at?
Did he get scratched by a cat?
Is he wearing an ugly hat?
I think he’s just a brat.

This is the problem with boys;
they think I’m just a toy.
Another part of their ploy,
and them all acting coy.


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