Tis true tis true,
Bigfoot ate my shoe.
He did a poo
In the grassy dew.
Now what am I to do?
I reached o'er for the gun of mine,
A sleek and shiny new carbine,
I took my aim, and made the shot,
But it wasn't loaded, I had forgot.
'Pon hearing the click, he made off quick,
My cursed luck it made me sick.
The fame and glory of slaying this beast,
Now a shattered dream, the memory ceased.
So I had a friend dress, big and hairy,
And made him snarly and look quite lairy,
And with my camera I did make,
The most tremendous Bigfoot fake.
I sold it to the Fortean Times,
Who published it upon page nine.
The running caption beneath it read,
"A man saw Bigfoot! Or so he said!"
The very next night, my door did creak,
I crept downstairs to take a peak.
There stood Bigfoot tall and mean,
On the article, he wasn't keen.
I explained my plight, and woes of me,
He said "I don't like people following me!"
I said sorry, admitting my shame,
And off went Bigfoot from whence he came.
He sometimes calls me on the phone,
And tells me tales of the hills he roams,
We're good friends now, and that we'll stay.
I don't need fame much anyway.
This is how bored I am, writing nonsense about Bifoot at 00:20 on a Sunday night, all because I read THIS article.
http://www.timesoftheinternet.com/1131.html
It's always rednecks. Bigfoot, lake monsters, UFOs, it's always the damn huckleberrys claiming they've seen 'em.
