Mishearing a bank robber.

Untitled Poem

With lederhosen fresh and clean
  And wearing a cute blue beret
The bank robber did not look mean
  But I was frightened anyway.
He had a smallish silver gun
  And eloquently had his say,
But small guns’ bullets are not fun;
  Well spoke or not, I was his prey.
I gave him all the banks’ small cash
  And prayed he’d wend again his way
But feared more deep his greed might clash
  With what we had on hand that day.
He asked me then: “‍The restroom’s where?‍”
  I feared it’s where my corpse would stay.
I said “‍’tis on the left down there‍”
  He glanced, then growled “‍a foolish play‍”
My thoughts grew clear as too my head
  He raised his gun. Here’s what he’d said:
“‍The rest is where?‍” No “‍room‍”. I pled
  But pled in vain. Now I am dead.