It's bad luck run amok
despite all that's said,
no compare, his despair,
once she's turned her head.

To mottle your wattle
must she be in sight?
Her behind, in your mind,
revs your engine, right?

Persevere chanticleer
crow your heart's content,
though a clown, write it down,
might be heaven-sent.

--jawjajack goobersack



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