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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
I woulda made it more unlikely if I had one wish
I take ish with the interstitial liquid bliss
And insist another double on the rocks with twist.
This is a fist full of good credit.
This is a circumstance that I must edit.
I said it ever thusly with the bust knee
You could trust me
Can't front without two feet to step fuss-free
But see, that's just fine, I lost mine
Handed then the bandit, thin: my last dime
Watched the wheels spin thinking infinitesimal
My ten-decimal chance, the professional
Gamblers scoffed
(But the bells went off)
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