It was love at first sight,
as I bellied up to the bar
and said, “You come here often?”
She was built like a brick pagoda,
and after a few rounds on me,
we were chewing the fat.
Before I knew what hit me,
it was “Your place or mine?”
The rest is history.

It was a whirlwind romance,
a match made in heaven.
We were over the moon,
with stars in our eyes.
But then, it was crunch time,
bottom of the ninth,
time to fish or cut bait.
So I popped the question.

It was wedding bells for us,
we tied the knot, for better or worse.
And after that, “home sweet home”.
I joined the rat race
and she had a bun in the oven.
Then came our bundle of joy,
the patter of little feet,
rug rats in our humble abode.

But then, I got the seven-year itch,
and I fell off the wagon.
The shit hit the fan,
and in a New York minute,
she wrote a “Dear John” letter,
saying, “Sayonara, sucker,”
and “Hasta la vista, baby!
See you in court!”

I was between a rock and a hard place,
left high and dry, without a pot to piss in.
Well, that’s the way the ball bounces.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
C’est la vie.

02/24/2005

Author's Note: [First published in Sunken Lines, Summer 2006.]

Posted on 02/24/2005
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt