Monday, April 17, 2023

NaPoWriMo, Day Seventeen, Poem Seventeen

 
Can't Make This Up
 
Got entered in 
three-legged race
tied to a corpse.

Mom bet it all,
said was her 
last best shot,

told her sisters
not to tell, which 
they of course did. 

Friends asked about
plans post-victory 
lap, left early.

Poets meddled, and 
I was subbed out
with Adolf Hitler,

who has history
of whisking off dead
better than most

and was asked to
grow out mustache
before he refused. 

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