Some say I’ve the demeanor of that Peanut they call ‘Chuck’,

who seldom smiles, and travels miles, to test his lousy luck

at getting with a red-haired girl, who barely bats an eye,

at a boy who’d rope the moon for love to gift her bottled sky.

This is the tale of the grief that’s good-

Unless, there’s no such thing

that makes the children laugh at lines

where batters blow their swing.

Where, footballs never get a kick,

Great Pumpkins never show,

and boys below the age of six

spout all you need to know.

-Amy Struthers (Approved by the Ministry of Quackly Affairs)