I always laughed my head at chance’s tricks.
She is an old lady whose fickle mood finally made her lose it.
But who am I to say anything? I sure am less sane,
since I lack the rhyme or reason to crack
and even so am nuts in the looks and the guts.
How could I be of harm? I bet my shadow
that no offspring will spring from my siren-singing,
laden with laurel or unsung by the fools’ choral.
So I leave these leftovers on behalf of the resilencing workings
of undercover backcopies’ bookworms.
What have I perfected by trampling on earth
so that I could expect eternity in return?
I happily fed on my joys and aches, and still
got nothing to make up for it. Except the shallow
lightness of my shadow. Then, take it, as you will.
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