To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
The Fiddle I remember the fiddle carried by my diddle who liked to piddle and ignore the kittles. His fiddle was beautiful, should be in a studio. One day as we stood below, it sparkled like gold snow. The lower part he did play downstairs in the room that day. I turned from rock to clay, as horror looked my way. The music was bickering. My diddle was snickering. His fiddle was sickening. Its end was flickering. While it was pointed at me, down the barrel I could see. My heart jumped to my knees, ached and disbelieved; that he would use his fiddle, to scare me and the kittles, instead of just to piddle. History lies in this riddle. |
Additional Notes:
There are words used that mean things other than what they are, they are consistent and have specific meanings. I will see if you can figure it out, it is a true story. After you evaluate this riddle, if you can't figure it out, I will respond to your evaluation with the meaning.
This is a short riddle and only brings out a few points in this terrifying situation.
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!