the finer things club is a group of individuals that meet on a consistent basis to discuss the finer things of life. Including but not limited to: art, literature, music, and so on. The times have been excellent. We wrote this poem to commemorate our times together, as we will be in a hiatus from meetings.
The stench of moth balls burned his nose hair as he searched through the old boxes in the attic The box was large, its contents unknown It perplexes me as I gaze at it and wandering and peeping I do not condone The box lay still by the hearth that was lit until the cat got to it This boys eyes were shut tight with only the cat as his friend he could not see the light uninvited and rejected little did he know how much he was affected The cliches abounded, pathetic fallacy too black clouds surrounded his feeble form frozen with fear he lifted his eyes heavenward his gaze set as little black drops pelted his nose with inspiration he rose to his feet he did gain no longer did he want to put a bullet in his brain! so he said, Bump That. fellas want some sugar Na more suckas droppin' like flies.
-Meg Johnson (wanted credit so she gets it, only for being a closer)