Bam. Slam. Alakazam. It was gone. The little donut man took off and ran on. His days were fearful, his run unending. He ran from cops, from whom he’d been offending.
But alas, his legs worn out; his shoes worn thin. Where was that once raging fire within? He sat in the alleyway, tired and eyes closed. Being a thief was not glamorous, as good as foretold. He put down his hand. Could this be the end? “Oh mighty, dear lord, please send me godsend.” His spirit was fading, and it seemed he’d been cursed. Before he had spotted that big, pink, red purse.
It would be easy. It would be breezy. But to whom did it belong? “I may be a crook, but I still know right from wrong.” Those tools on that belt — and the badge on that shirt! It was none other than that relentless, rotten, dirt! The donut stood tall. There was no time to stall. That purse was his life, and his luck had been called.
Out with a reach — the donut did grab! His hand on the purse, his hand had been nabbed! Wait, what? The little donut had been caught? This was all wrong; he detested, so he fought! But to little avail did the little donut succeed. Little donut, take pride, and do heed: your time in jail will last you long. And your dreams of bam, slam, and alakazam — those are all gone.