Disclaimer: The poem’s mine; so don’t steal it. If you do, my friend CrazyStalker (and she is an actual person) will make sure that you’ll live to regret it. (And this is not a threat. My work is like my baby, so to speak. *cough*) So now that we’re understood, go ahead and read this two-year-old poem.

He stands tall,

with invincibility and power,

hands on hips, he stands as a

sign of power,

black mustache curled up in the

air,

black and gold uniform that

shines through with gleaming gold

buttons.

The black boots.

The black hat.

The black everything.

He stands tall.