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There it goes again. The vole-men are burrowing. I can hear their tiny hands, I can hear the soft scratching of hundreds of tiny feet scuttling in their tunnels. I have caught a few. Once defurred they can be roasted like chicken, braised in their own juices, simmering in lemon and thyme. But there are too many of them to eat. They repopulate. They grow to the size of a small child, and they are faster than roaches. Once while I was asleep, they burrowed into the air hole of my bunker, and I had to dispatch six of them at once. I couldn't eat them all. I trekked for miles in the dark, dragging three dead vole-men along. I threw them into a pit, where they would be eaten by greater monsters.
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You see, children, when I was about your age, I figured out that my parents despised me, and I did something about it. Now that I've grown up a little, I decided to write this helpful guide, so I can assist any and all of you that might be in serious danger. What should you do if your parents wish your death upon you, and hope you only suffer? You'll find out soon. But first, I've designed a little test that should help you know if your parents really do hate you.
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More featured poems »
Do not shag gentle during that good night,
Youthful lust should burn and rave after close of day;
Rage, rage following the turning off of the light.
Though wise scholars in their minds know safety is right,
Because their getting laid was so unlikely they
Do not shag gentle during that good night..
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