Where Have All My Pointies Gone
T Tom Billsborough
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Six-eighty five, there's no such Time
But it has a bearing on this rhyme.
It's the number of points that have gone astray
On two successive Saturdays.
It could be that they're icy cold,
Locked in a dungeon mighty old,
With only bits of bread and water
Donated by their kidnapper.
But before you sob, before you cry,
I've called upon the Hunter guy
To find these little chaps for me
So far no news, Oh dearie me!
But certain that he'll heed my call
And be upon the proverbial ball.
If not, these poems may multiply
Until I know I'm home and dry
With some replacement points, you see,
Though the last souls stay in misery!
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