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.
aaron's random musings 