[He stands back, straightens himself up, and clears his throat. Charlie doesn't usually get nervous, but he's about to recite a poem he wrote in a few days' time for the god of freaking poetry.
The little paper crinkles at the edges as he grips it tighter and begins:]
Don't touch my cello Don't call me Frenchie These bedsheets are itchy And the bus smelled weird
There are monsters In the woods And in the city And on the road
But the sun is bright It's my guiding light And that's how I know I'm home
[And then he looks up with a nervous sort of smile, like 'did I do good?']
no subject
[He stands back, straightens himself up, and clears his throat. Charlie doesn't usually get nervous, but he's about to recite a poem he wrote in a few days' time for the god of freaking poetry.
The little paper crinkles at the edges as he grips it tighter and begins:]
Don't touch my cello
Don't call me Frenchie
These bedsheets are itchy
And the bus smelled weird
There are monsters
In the woods
And in the city
And on the road
But the sun is bright
It's my guiding light
And that's how I know
I'm home
[And then he looks up with a nervous sort of smile, like 'did I do good?']