My Thoughts Rhymed In Crescendos

My thoughts rhymed, in crescendos To your pitch; what child is this Kicking the stars back to the firmament, He's either early or late, depending On your take; so we'll dig a shallow grave So we can plant and save The little baby seeds. Men and women do that dance The furtive one, the flirty one; Circling round each other's base They weigh and size each word and look, They preen like birds, anticipate The anti-climactic narrow escape From those who do not please. I never pleased; I never tried It seemed I must be dead inside Never got near enough third base, That plate of stupefying strudel cakes, Wedding processions; Where I missed with the rice, And cursing luck, missed it twice; The bouquets poked me in the eye And tin can music dragged down streets Always makes me grimace Even to this day.