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.

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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.”