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)