A Fable

Purveyor of  rot and whatnot, entrepreneur of  I forgot, with wrists hard as hammers — that birthmark a slot — grip it, strip it, flip it hard — ramp my shard. If  fear be sexy, a synch & a match — Gone the way of  wax & worms — gone like November 2011 — sweet by nature, mean by culture — “Goodbye, luck, you idiot,” said the Fox to the Grapes. “I love you,” replied the Grapes.