Like a lollipop,
LICK ME.
Like a lemon,
**** ME.
Like a balloon,
*******.
Like a banana...

A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
U
V
W
X
Y
and
...Z.

Now I know my A-B-C's,
...could you kindly
*******!

Love,
d

the way we wish
it was
the way
it ought to be
but
fate has set us
on a course
of would haves
should have
been.

She said it's "Brittany, not Britney,"
as we walked over the Mathematical Bridge.
I asked her if that was a reference,
but there's more than just a difference in nomenclature.

She said, "My name is Brittany Etheridge
but there is also a Britney Etheridge,
and she's a walking disaster."
I said "Hey, I never knew..."
as I looked into the river.

"Did you know about this bridge?" she asked me,
and I answered, "It's just a way between shores."
But there's always more to what is there, there's history.
"It was here before computers, before the wars,
before Britney Etheridge."

I could see my reflection in the water below,
warping my face with the current, and
it left me with nothing but a desire to know the history of all things,
but mainly Brittany Etheridge.

She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts. Now that's engineering."
And I agreed with a nod and a smile.
"Britney Etheridge wouldn't care though."

She kept talking after that, but all the while I thought
about the bridge, and how there're screws here now.
She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts."

He's King Louis.
I went to school with the regency.
He's superfluous, and
he taught me grammatical consistency.

Since the first day of education,
he showed me cultural emancipation
behind the bleachers in the gymnasium,
between three and six on Wednesday afternoons.

He wore a crown of indignation
to guide him in his transmigration
of lines no boy should cross.

He takes the bait from all the teachers
and all the handshakes from the preachers
until it's not just the heat that makes King Louis swoon.
The priests, they tell him in their French,
"**** de Monarque se viendra repentir!"
Much, much too late, the little wretch.

King Louis knows arithmetic, and
he listens to The Smiths with it
and thinks the rumors just aren't fair.

He knows the kids are uncouth gits
and all their sweaters are too loosely knit
and they don't spend nearly enough time on their hair.

Because he was King Louis,
time spend wading through the past is not a fling,
but a testament to getting up and staying there.