Treasure Island

subhadip bhattacharya


red riding hood


Little arms and legs,
full of freshness.
I don't see the harm..
the delight,
let us not talk about rights.

Little red riding hood,
then took old of her grandma's gun,
turned around and fired...
one, two, three.

The wolf,
unable to move,
moves only with his eyes,
and sighs,
I am free, I am fre, I am free.

Submitted: Saturday, February 01, 2014

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  • Gajanan Mishra (2/1/2014 5:58:00 AM)

    fine writing, I like it, thanks. go on writing my dear poet, you are welcome to this site.
    I invite you to read my poems and comment. (Report) Reply

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