This is an “object” poem from one of my poetry courses. The inspiration comes from my dad, who always complains about how inaccurate the portrayal of nail gun shootings is in horror movies. I hope you find it both entertaining and educational.
You do not fool me, Mister
through three planks of wood,
and the antagonist’s
Hollywood may have exaggerated
your power — elevating you to the level
of a sniper rifle — but I know
The metal spikes you spit
fly six inches, then crash to the ground,
their cries of pain echoing
off the concrete floor.
You may have tricked horror movie
enthusiasts, but you will never deceive
the carpenter’s daughter.