Ahhhh! I'm finally able to edit my documents! :D Anyway, I got bored one day and one of my friends dislikes Justin Bieber. So I was like, "Hm. I'll write a poem about this." And I did. . .Most of you who read it will probably find it much too long, and I'm sure it goes against some rule on this site, but like I said, I was bored. So! Hopefully you enjoy, leave a review if you want and check out my other stuff. :)

Thanks,
My Parakeet Has Issues


T'was a fine Sunday morning when John Batchan awoke.
He headed for the TV and grabbed the remote.
With a lazy yawn, he brought life to the black screen,
But his mood quickly changed when he saw what he was seeing.

Dancing on stage, as if he had any talent at all,
was a young Hollywood popstar who could make all the girls fall.
He was singing into his headset
with his prepubescent voice
and constantly flipping his hair,
as if it were an involuntary choice.

John clenched his teeth.
He furrowed his brow.
His stomach tightened in anger,
and he let out a growl.

"I just don't understand what's so special here!
"Why is he so loved? Why so revered?
"He has no talent, he's the most stupidest ever!
"His lyrics have no meaning, his dances aren't clever!"

Upon the last word, John let out a shout.
His hatred took over and he thrashed about.
He karate-chopped the coffee table,
he sent the couch flying.
He smashed all the windows without even trying!

Last, but not least, with a deafening wail,
he went for the TV, through the air he did sail.
John landed a kick, filled with power and skill,
right through the screen!
The popstar had been killed.

But then, as John extracted his foot from the glass,
a thought popped up in his head-
it was too good to let pass.

"I've an idea. . ." John said with a giggling grin.
He went to his computer and quickly logged in.
Then off to Google, John Batchan did go,
and he searched for the whereabouts of the popstar's next show.

Oh! How John laughed! When the results did appear,
for the popstar's next concert was surprisingly near!
Just down the street, in fact, was its location,
so he started his plan without hesitation.

He changed his clothes so that he was wearing all black
and he gathered some rope, and a burlap sack.

Longboard in hand, he headed outside,
wearing a smile of malice for the entire ride.

When he reached his destination,
John frowned in disgust
at the mobs of fan girls
around the tour bus.

Their screams of obsession were thick in the air,
and though it was vastly annoying, John didn't care.
Ignoring the squeals, he silently started
towards the backstage wing,
his ambitions full-hearted.

Locating the room didn't take much detection—
there were girls all around
like a zombie infection.

"So how to get in?" John thought in his head.
He decided to break through the window instead.

Finally in, John saw with great glee,
the popstar just chillin' contentedly.

With Ninja-like stealth,
Batchan picked up a large vase,
and hit him over the head—
oh the look on his face!

Wasting no time,
John tied up the boy,
stuffed him in the sack,
and left the room with great joy. . .

Now, when Mr. B awoke he was very afraid indeed.
He didn't know where he was and he'd started to bleed.
The atmosphere was black,
he was bound to a chair,
he couldn't help but whimper—
it was too much to bare!

Then through the darkness
he could make out the sound,
of purposeful footsteps,
tapping on the ground.

With a sudden click, there was a blinding white light.
"Yo, man!" Bieber said. "This just ain't right!"
"I can't stay here! Please, let me go!
"I'll give you free tickets,
to my next show?"

He continued to whine,
in a voice so high-pitched,
that he was suddenly slapped and told,
"Stop being such a bitch."

Now that his eyes had adjusted,
Bieber could see,
a figure looming over him
quite threateningly.

Then in a voice that was more of a hiss,
his capture continued and he said this:
"I don't want your stupid tickets
to your stupid show.
So you better stop begging-
I'm not letting you go.
You think you're so cool
with your auto-tune,
Well, 'J-Beebz',
It's time you've met your doom.
You'll never set foot on your stage again-
Remember my name-John Batchan!"

With a menacing laugh, John walked out of sight.
There was another click, and he extinguished the light.
All alone, in the dark of who-knows-wear,
Bieber sat sobbing, until he started to hear,
the screech of metal—an opening clasp?
Then he heard a low growl and let out a gasp.

As the scratch of claws on concrete grew close
a girlish scream escaped Bieber's throat.
He wiggled and wobbled, helpless on his stool,
The last words he wailed: "Man, this totally isn't cool!"

Now, whenever the popstar is mentioned in the news,
it's about his disappearance that left the world confused.
What could have happened? Where did he go?
Well, unless you're John Batchan, you'll never know.