A Fable

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.