In a crooked throne, a crooked man sat
with a slightly crooked Royal Crown
in place of a cone-shaped hat.
His smile was crooked, as was his intent.
All of this crookedness seemed not to prevent
Miss Donnywood from wisely staying away;
oh, she certainly did not behave that day,
asserting confidently through rum-reeked breath
“Don’t worry, I like trouble.”

I love the way you call me “Baby”
with daring eyes and smirking lips--
a face that will surely trip me up
like cracks in concrete sidewalks
that do not section off the length,
but, rather, stumble my stride
and skin my knees and scrape my hands
and maybe, perhaps, bruise my heart
///if only just enough to compose
an ache scarcely detectable.


But…

[I think I’m in for more than I bargained for]

 …my balance will falter soon here.

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