The Strange Routine Of Albert Jones
The structured life of Albert Jones was tough to understand,
Each day he woke and made his bed, his day already planned.
He'd brush his teeth and comb his hair and make a pot of tea,
Then pop his spots and wash his face, and have a little wee.
So far, so good I hear you cry, theres nothing strange thus far,
But what came next is not the norm if normals what we are.
He'd sit himself on his settee and take a razors edge,
Then run the blade along his arms until they bled and bled.
He'd do this for an hour or so, each day was just the same,
He'd pull his sleeves down afterwards to cover up the pain.
Then off to work once more he strolled, his heart now full of glee,
'Cos pain and hurt were Alberts thing, unlike for you and me.
But one day Albert went too far, his cutting went too deep,
He slit his veins, and through the gash, his life began to seep.
He didnt try to stem the flow, he didnt shed a tear,
He lay right back and watched it drip, for him it held no fear.
A week went by without a sound, his workmates worry grew,
A policeman called to Alberts flat and through the door he flew.
What greeted him inside said flat was stench and blood and death,
The signs of Alberts mad routine, the signs of his last breath.
The policeman took his notepad out and jotted for a while,
He scanned the body up and down then noticed Alberts smile....
Was young Albert happy? Only Albert knows for sure,
But Alberts life was Alberts choice and who can ask for more?
Edited by INSOMANiAC at 02:41:18 25-07-2012