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Grit
I knew a mannish boy named Grit
who liked to drive his motorcycle.
There wasn't much he cared to do,
but riding always felt so fine.
He knew the girls were watching him;
he didn't stop to question why.
All Grit knew was he had it easy,
and he wanted the easy to stay.
Grit would light a fire for his friends
and stay and keep them company.
He'd tell a joke with tones of voice
that felt like mirrors and prism glass.
He always would agree with you
and step down quick to raising voice.
He also had a slithered way
of slipping hands into a pocket.
For many days Grit may be a friend
until a perk may catch his drift.
And then he may step down or back
atop your head or below your skirt.
At times his grip will belie the waist
even if the time's not right;
given to the time and place,
Grit would migrate to higher ground.
Eventually, one no longer knows Grit.
