Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Accursed Instrument

Nose whistle nose whistle;
On my arms hairs bristle.
Pick your nose I won't tell;
Release me from this Hell.
I can't focus I can't think;
I confess I'm on the brink!
Please, I beg, I plead, I cry!
Blow your nose or I must die!

I wrote this in Modern English Lit...guess why.

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