Random Chortle Of The Day
Mrs Nogger's daughter had to do some English homework over the weekend (she was at her Dads). Mrs N enquires last night "have you done that homework Jasmine?"
"Yes"
"Can I see it"
Said piece of homework (a poem on homelessness) is produced, she (aged 11) has written the following piece all by herself:
As the sun sets and is changed into shadows
it turns cold in the city at night
I watch as the cracks in the concrete buildings
pour out the night people.
The red bricks of daylight
turn orange and glow in the setting sun
Brightness turns into deeper colors of richer tones of red.
The ivory color stucco towers,
turn a rose pink in the setting sun
The glass windows that displayed the brightness of day
blinding your gaze,
now reflect the stone gray of the clouds
and turn the glass a brown smoke dull
with no reflection, only dusk falling still.
Now at days end, the men in suits
head home to a safe, hard earned place
jackets thrown over the shoulder
And the pretty people go home.
Ladies no longer sit at the sidewalk cafe's
as the night air turns them cold, like the city does.
The bustling streets clear,
drivers emerge with lights glaring
While the night people stare.
Side walk cafe's where the pretty ladies sat
are now seated with high class sellers of flesh
wearing less, not feeling the cold as much.
Waiting for alcohol laden breath to flow over them
with the nostrils of the damned, smelling like death.
Street people covered in this self expression of tats
are shirtless, with arms wide stretched,
are saying; this is my city, barking out in the night
Waiting for the smell of fear to fill the city air.
Dumpsters serve dinner,
trash provides another drink, ten cents a can
the night hunters look for more
all for the wine that numbs the pain
making you forget you have no home.
The eyes of the night people
stare in an empty way
a fear sets in for the ordinary ones,
then they look away.
The movements are slow,
sitting back in the shadows,
waiting for that fear to weaken.
It's odd the separation
of the day and the night
at dark no one can see you hiding there
But, someone watches you...
and sees your every move.
I watch as the cracks in the concrete
pour out the night people
Then suck them back in
with the morning light.
The End
Blimey! She's only 11 too, that's rather good isn't it.
"Are you sure you've written this all by yourself?"
"Erm well Helen (Daddy's tart) helped me a bit"
"Really, can you just explain to me who are these 'high class sellers of flesh' as I don't understand that bit?"
"Erm, well, Helen wrote that bit" (being a tart herself she would understand we assume).
"So you are sure that you definitely wrote this, with just a little bit of help from Helen?"
"Yes"
"Why did you write it in an American accent (gray, color etc)?"
"Erm, they are just spelling mistakes"
"So if I Google the first line of this I won't find it anywhere on the 'net?"
"No!"
"Right then, oh look I've just found it, I think you'd better do it again, personally"
After a small tantrum & ten minutes or so we are confronted with:
The shop doorway is very cold
And full of mould
There's homeless people everywhere
Some over here, and some over there.
The End
Priceless!
"Yes"
"Can I see it"
Said piece of homework (a poem on homelessness) is produced, she (aged 11) has written the following piece all by herself:
As the sun sets and is changed into shadows
it turns cold in the city at night
I watch as the cracks in the concrete buildings
pour out the night people.
The red bricks of daylight
turn orange and glow in the setting sun
Brightness turns into deeper colors of richer tones of red.
The ivory color stucco towers,
turn a rose pink in the setting sun
The glass windows that displayed the brightness of day
blinding your gaze,
now reflect the stone gray of the clouds
and turn the glass a brown smoke dull
with no reflection, only dusk falling still.
Now at days end, the men in suits
head home to a safe, hard earned place
jackets thrown over the shoulder
And the pretty people go home.
Ladies no longer sit at the sidewalk cafe's
as the night air turns them cold, like the city does.
The bustling streets clear,
drivers emerge with lights glaring
While the night people stare.
Side walk cafe's where the pretty ladies sat
are now seated with high class sellers of flesh
wearing less, not feeling the cold as much.
Waiting for alcohol laden breath to flow over them
with the nostrils of the damned, smelling like death.
Street people covered in this self expression of tats
are shirtless, with arms wide stretched,
are saying; this is my city, barking out in the night
Waiting for the smell of fear to fill the city air.
Dumpsters serve dinner,
trash provides another drink, ten cents a can
the night hunters look for more
all for the wine that numbs the pain
making you forget you have no home.
The eyes of the night people
stare in an empty way
a fear sets in for the ordinary ones,
then they look away.
The movements are slow,
sitting back in the shadows,
waiting for that fear to weaken.
It's odd the separation
of the day and the night
at dark no one can see you hiding there
But, someone watches you...
and sees your every move.
I watch as the cracks in the concrete
pour out the night people
Then suck them back in
with the morning light.
The End
Blimey! She's only 11 too, that's rather good isn't it.
"Are you sure you've written this all by yourself?"
"Erm well Helen (Daddy's tart) helped me a bit"
"Really, can you just explain to me who are these 'high class sellers of flesh' as I don't understand that bit?"
"Erm, well, Helen wrote that bit" (being a tart herself she would understand we assume).
"So you are sure that you definitely wrote this, with just a little bit of help from Helen?"
"Yes"
"Why did you write it in an American accent (gray, color etc)?"
"Erm, they are just spelling mistakes"
"So if I Google the first line of this I won't find it anywhere on the 'net?"
"No!"
"Right then, oh look I've just found it, I think you'd better do it again, personally"
After a small tantrum & ten minutes or so we are confronted with:
The shop doorway is very cold
And full of mould
There's homeless people everywhere
Some over here, and some over there.
The End
Priceless!
