Dangled

I had a purple paw; dark and injured.  It dragged along the road, up the steps on the bus.  Kids hit it with their bikes.  Strangers commented on it loudly.  I don't even know where I was going, but it felt like all I did was walk a circle around the town, allowing everyone to gawk, giving them more opportunities to harass my neglected limb.

I had a purple paw, that was dark not because it was injured, but because God made it that way.  There wasn't much to say about it; I tried to ignore it, but the leers kept coming.  The audience never faded.  I shifted my gait by several degrees, to no avail.

Now everyone knows me.  Everyone has something to say.

So I had this purple paw removed, and placed it under glass, and used it as a table.  I make fun of it, I taunt it, I let it know how much misery it caused the rest of me.

So this purple paw rests there.  It has no where else to go.

I let the years go bye.

It never moved an inch.

I had supper real late one morning, and perhaps had too much else taken in, so I let out that paw and smashed it with a crowbar.  Then I got close to the edge, looked back and shot a flame, then jumped into the cliff.

So I set my paw on fire.