Purveyor of rot and whatnot,
entrepreneur of I forgot,
with wrists hard as hammers —
that birthmark a slot —
grip it, strip it, flip it hard —
ramp my shard.
If fear be sexy, a synch
& a match —
Gone the way of wax & worms —
gone like November 2011 —
sweet by nature, mean by culture —
“Goodbye, luck, you idiot,”
said the Fox to the Grapes.
“I love you,” replied the Grapes.