Babb in Diary

Babb walked down the ramp to hell
He smiled quite wickedly
A knife flew from his claw-like hand
And it stuck in my flesh

Screams, they tore from my mouth
I cursed Babb and tore the knife out
I licked the blade clean with hardly a nick
It tasted like sweet revenge

Babb was cursed immediately, turning into a cat
He stalked around the room quietly
Before I snuffed him with my 44 magnum, that is
He was. . .quite stiff

So never a day goes by that I don’t think fondly of old Babb
That old maggot
He loved catnip
I snuffed him with my 44,
Now he’s dead in the ground, never to see the light of day

That’s a poem I wrote 16 years ago. I found it today while searching through some old papers in the room I grew up in, and I love it. I think it’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever written. I wrote it at 1:00 a.m. one early March morning.

I don’t have anything much to say today. My birds are great. My little feathery rocks. Their consistency and their funny senses of humor help keep me grounded, whatever that means.

I’m drained, physically and emotionally, but I’m good. Off to play a few matches of Tetris with some rando’s on the internet. Bye for now.

~Lain (aka Jones and Jone the good)