You don’t think we can, do you?
I know it can’t be done…
I’ll prove I’m right, I’ll prove you wrong.
… by you or anyone.
Right down that row, that’s where we’ll go.
In here, it’s called a lane.
Set up the pins, we’ll knock ‘em down.
You’re really quite insane.
You pull Grandpa by the head
and mind his face, I know.
I’ll grab his legs and give a push.
Just take it nice and slow.
Steer clear the gutters ‘til the end.
That’s what my daddy said.
Dead center for a hole-in-one.
A “strike.” But yes, Dad’s dead.
They all fell down, we’ve won the round.
And Grandpa’s in the pit.
One problem, though, that’s only ten.
Well, just you wait a bit.
Pins swept away, news ones in play…
The gears are grinding slow.
And Grandpa clock is smashed to bits.
It’s really quite a show!
His casing’s cracked, his springs have sprung!
His hands are in the air.
He’s hit three pins in the lane next door.
I think he bowled a spare!
And there it is, just like I said!
It couldn’t be foreseen.
Grandfather clock will strike no more…
… but he did once strike thirteen.
NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 22: Take [a] statement of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens. “The clock can’t strike thirteen.”