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I thought the chance it was a hundred to one |
|
On one thumb |
|
I could count up the percentage of my coming undone |
|
but now some calculation of impatiently fated rhymes |
|
sourpatch ribbon to the wreck of my valentine |
|
that a fine mess like this should get dished |
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I woulda made it more unlikely if I had one wish |
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I take ish with the interstitial liquid bliss |
|
and insist another double on the rocks with twist. |
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This is a fist full of good credit. |
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This is a circumstance that I must edit. |
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I said it ever thusly with the bust knee |
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you could trust me |
|
can't front without two feet to step fuss-free |
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but see, that's just fine, I lost mine |
|
handed then the bandit, thin: my last dime |
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watched the wheels spin thinking infinitesimal |
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my ten-decimal chance, the professional |
|
gamblers scoffed |
|
(but the bells went off) |
