This week it is the turn of the Mork and Mindy inspired NanU to drive the world-famous Poetry Bus and the cost of a ticket has been set as a poem "about bursting, exploding, restarting, getting it in gear, waking up" that sort of thing. Mine started off about exploding but then the theme got lost among the waffle. Please check out NanU's link above to see how much better the other passengers have tackled the task.
She burst into the ballroom like a butterfly,
an explosion of exotic, garish cloth.
All that I could do was faintly mutter ‘Why?’
and blend into the curtains like a moth.
Everybody present turned and gazed at her,
sweeping in the chandeliered hall.
Even my dear Robert seemed amazed at her
at my (and not my sister’s) birthday ball.
In fact, he was the very first who danced with her,
swirling in a dreamlike whirlwind waltz.
Anyone could see he was entranced with her
oblivious to all her many faults.
By now, of course, the crowd all had their backs to me,
the birthday girl now well and truly spurned.
A gorilla could have taken a large axe to me
and I doubt that anybody would have turned.
Since we were kids, she’d always stolen things from me,
she coveted whatever I possessed.
She stole my dolls, my friends, my diamond rings from me,
my clothes, my stash of coke and all the rest.
It was obvious that Robert was in love with her
and pretty soon they slipped out of the hall.
I pictured my fiancé up above with her
and I, left lonely at my birthday ball.
On coming back, he shot a glance from her to me
and suddenly I felt the room grow hotter.
What happened next is something of a blur to me –
presumably that must be when I shot her.