I thought the chance, it was a hundred to one
On one thumb I could count up the percentage of my coming undone
But then some calculation of impatiently fated rhymes:
Sour patch ribbon to the wreck of my valentine
That a fine mess like this should get dished
I would have 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)