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My Trip to Human Time

A.S. Lawrence

By A. S. LawrencePublished 2 years ago 2 min read

I'm a king out of time,

a T-Rex unfrozen

when nothing is mine.

I walk down the streets

just eyeing the treats,

but the little food shrieks

and police sirens scream.

I hear a man on the street call to his daughter,

"Hey Sara!"

and my mouth waters.

I remember the tasty triceratops,

but that was a previous era...

I can't buy a snack,

for the shopowning monkeys fear an attack.

So I settle for squirrels

and some stray homeless girls.

The former are stringy

and stick in my teeth,

and the latter might film me

or call the police.

It's hard to hide

when my body is bigger

than some of these little rats' houses.

So I move in disguise

when my majesty triggers

the defense of these glorified mouses.

I am so so hungry,

and I find myself wondering:

How did they?

How did they build all this

with only the squeaking

that comes from their mouths?

I attempt to converse

but it only gets worse.

They don't even have videochat!

The primitive, clever rats!

They don't hear my heartsong,

but they know which color light is wrong

when they need to move their pods

toward their next mammal goal.

I figured out their language

quite quickly in my anguish,

and saw an ad

for something quite rad:

A "national park"!

with delicious buffalo

roaming the horizon.

My kind of place!

And at my regal pace,

I could be there quicker

than their metal mistakes.

So I made out for the "badlands"

How typical of the monkeys!

To call a land full of tasty bison

a bad land!

For that alone,

they should be banned

From all intelligent races.

But while we're on the subject,

their other crimes should be public!

Those metal creations

like shiny crustaceans...

Do they know that they burn

my ancestors' bodies for fuel?

Don't they know that Terra

gave them legs to earn

the distance they bypass like fools?

I know that they're wrong.

My lineage is long.

I'll put our tens of millions

against their twelve thousand

years of proven survival.

And their museums called my brain tiny! (Ha!)

Don't think that slipped by me.

arthumorsurreal poetry

About the Creator

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